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malavera · 11 months ago

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Peaches: “Will you forgive me... Daddy?” (18+) — Logan Howlett

this is a part 2 of my series called Peaches, but it can be read as a standalone 😉 if you wish to check out the part 1 click here!

summary: It’s not like you can’t take care of yourself, no. Your dad just worries a lot so he asks for your friendly old man neighbor to look after you while he’s gone on his business trip. But is that all?

warning: SMUT! MDNI. a little bit fluff, ddlg dynamic, bratty!reader, dom!logan, oral M receiving, throatfucking

taglist: @wcndercore @peachyystuff @kholdkill @narjuko @the-occasional-artist1125 @robynanthonystark @suchasweetieee @jensojkaobecna @explainthisaetheists @currentlyquestioningexistence @cathers-world @seasonofthenerd @thinkinonsense comment if you'd like to be tagged for the next part 😉

The peach-colored bath bomb hisses as it plunges into the warm water, sending ripples through the surface. It fizzes and dissolves, releasing a cloud of sweet fragrance that wraps around the room like a soft, intoxicating embrace. You inhale deeply, the scent pulling you back to a moment not so long ago. As the steam rises, you let the bathrobe slip from your shoulders, but hesitate. The water beckons, promising comfort and warmth, yet something in you resists. His scent still clings to your skin—a haunting reminder of a presence now gone. The thought of washing it away feels like surrendering the last trace of him, and for a moment, you stand there, torn between the allure of the soothing bath and the ache of holding on to what remains.

But in the end, the warmth proves too inviting, and you let yourself slip into the bath. The water envelops you, pulling you into its embrace as your mind replays the scene, vivid and haunting. You can almost see him again, the way he casually brought his fingers to his lips, licking the last remnants of you with a slow, deliberate ease. He didn’t say a word, but that smirk—so confident, so sure—spoke volumes. It was a silent claim, a parting message that lingered as he turned to leave, leaving you with nothing but the fading echo of his presence and the water that now seems too gentle, too cleansing, against the memory you wish to keep.

Time has slipped away, and now, two weeks have passed since that moment. It feels like a distant dream, yet the memory remains sharp, refusing to fade. You’ve been avoiding Logan ever since, even though that’s not what he wants from you. He’s the opposite of what you’ve intended to do; he wants you to embrace it. He wants you to embrace your desire.

But like what you are, you’re too much of a pussy to face your own desire. Even though it aches for his touch.

Now, with your dad away on a business trip, you couldn't be more thrilled. The house is yours, a rare freedom that has your mind buzzing with possibilities. You imagine nights without curfew, slipping out into the night without a care, and not having to worry about getting caught. But your excitement gets the best of you, and you celebrate too soon. Just when you think you’ve outsmarted the system, your dad’s words come crashing down like a cold wave, his rules and expectations finding a way to reach you even when he’s miles away, dampening the thrill before it even begins,

“I’ve asked Logan to watch over you here and there. So, I won’t worry much. He’ll update me on whatever it is you do so, behave.”

Fun right?

And here you are, sitting in the diner’s booth with your girlfriends, the buzz of conversation and the smell of greasy food filling the air. They’re all planning to head to a party after this, and when they mention the time—10 PM—your stomach flips. That’s your curfew, the invisible line you’ve never dared to cross. But tonight, the temptation is too strong, and you’re about to go for it, to finally break the rules. Just as you’re about to give in, the door chimes, and there he is—Logan, strolling into the diner like he owns the place. He walks right up to you, his presence sending a jolt through your resolve, and without a word, he makes it clear he’s not letting you out of his sight tonight. As he takes your hand, you know the party isn’t in the cards anymore—Logan’s about to take you on a different kind of ride.

Crossing your arms tightly over your chest, you pout, your bottom lip jutting out as you stubbornly refuse to look straight ahead. “I’m not a seventeen-year-old,” you mutter under your breath, the words more for yourself than for him.

“But you act like one,” Logan shoots back with a tsk, not missing a beat.

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “I’m twenty-three, for god’s sake. Both of you need to stop treating me like a baby!” You huff, finally turning to face him. He’s driving with effortless ease, one hand on the steering wheel, the other casually resting against the door. The simple, relaxed way he holds himself only makes him look even more frustratingly attractive. You hate that he’s right, but more than that, you hate that you can’t stop noticing just how good he looks when he’s in control.

Stubborn as ever, you dig in, determined not to let him win this round. You reminded yourself of why you were fuming in the first place, the anger bubbling back to the surface. “Stop the truck,” you demanded, your voice edged with frustration.

Logan’s head snapped towards you, surprise flashing in his eyes. “What?”

“I said stop the truck, or I’ll jump, and I won’t hesitate. Do not test me right now, I swear, Logan,” you grumbled, your tone leaving no room for doubt. Your sudden tantrum catches him off guard, and for a moment, the confident Logan you’re used to falters. The sweet little peach he thought he knew is nowhere to be found, replaced by someone fierce and unpredictable.

It intrigues him. Something in your defiance pulls at him, piquing his curiosity. He’s not sure what you’re planning, but he wants to find out. Without a word, he slows the car, watching you closely, waiting to see what you’ll do next.

The tension in the car was thick, suffocating even, as you glared at Logan, fury burning in your eyes. The moment felt like it could explode any second, and you weren’t willing to sit there another minute. With a sharp huff, you pushed the door open and stormed out of the car, the cool night air hitting your face like a slap.

“Peach!” Logan’s voice boomed, filled with an urgency that barely masked his frustration. He fumbled with his seatbelt, the metal buckle clinking violently before he freed himself and followed you out. The car door slammed behind him, reverberating in the stillness. “What the hell are you doing?!”

You didn’t stop. “I’m going to my friends, and you can’t stop me!” Your voice was a defiant shout, each word a hammer striking the fragile foundation of whatever was left between you two. Your footsteps were quick, determined to leave him and everything he represented behind.

Logan’s grunt was more animal than man, filled with a rawness that made your heart lurch. “Peach, I swear, get back in the fucking car!” His voice cracked through the night, a desperate command that echoed around you.

But you didn’t turn back. Not this time. “No! And stop calling me that, that’s not even my name!” You shot back, your words slicing through the tension like a blade, final and unyielding.

As you thought you’d finally put enough distance between yourself and his truck, something shifted beneath you—your feet were no longer pounding against the pavement. You shrieked in surprise, your arms flailing as you tried to break free. But before you could fully process what was happening, you were momentarily released, only for Logan to scoop you up again, this time slinging you over his shoulder with a grunt of determination.

"You're not going anywhere, not even in that dress," Logan growled, his voice rough and unwavering, sending a chill down your spine. You writhed in his grasp, pounding your fists against his broad back with all the force you could muster.

"Let me go! Please! Help, someone!" Your voice rang out, desperate and frantic, but the night offered no solace. The street was eerily quiet, not a single car in sight, no one to hear your cries. The only response was the echo of your own voice and the steady, unyielding pace of Logan’s steps as he carried you back towards his truck.

Logan wasted no time strapping you into the passenger seat, his hands moving with a practiced efficiency that left no room for protest. The door slammed shut with a resounding thud, and before you could unbuckle yourself, he was already climbing into the driver’s seat. Your frustration bubbled over, and you flailed your arms, grunting and throwing a full-blown tantrum like a five-year-old denied their favorite toy.

But then Logan’s voice erupted, filling the car with a booming authority that silenced you instantly. “ENOUGH!” The word hung in the air, heavy and final. Your arms froze mid-motion, and you stared at him with your brows furrowed and lips pouting, the anger in your eyes now mixed with a hint of confusion.

Logan’s gaze softened just a fraction, but his tone remained firm as he continued, “I’m just doing what your dad wants me to do here, Peach. So help me God, if you wanna go hang out with your friends past curfew, fine, I’ll let you go. But not this one!” His voice was low, edged with a protectiveness that made your heart skip a beat. “I’m not letting you go out there to that fucking stupid party where you could probably get drugged or have alcohol shoved down your throat without your consent; no fucking way.”

The weight of his words settled over you, and for a moment, the car was filled with nothing but the sound of your heavy breathing, the tension between you both palpable.

Logan’s eyes flicked over to you, taking in the way your chest still heaved with heavy, frustrated breaths. He understood why. The anger bubbling inside you wasn’t just about this moment—it was about the bigger picture, the suffocating sense of disappointment that came from a reality that refused to bend to your desires. You craved freedom, the kind that seemed to come so easily to everyone else.

All you wanted was to be like the others out there, those who could breeze past curfew without a second thought, who laughed and danced through the night without anyone holding them back. Hell, they didn’t even have curfews anymore, not since they turned twenty-one. But here you were, feeling like the world was passing you by, like you were missing out on all the big, exhilarating experiences that came with being young and reckless.

You’d never touched alcohol, never gone to a party where the night stretched into the early hours, never done anything that could be described as recklessly fun. And it gnawed at you. The longing for that freedom, for the chance to let loose and live a little, was a weight on your chest, one that no amount of logic or concern from Logan could lift.

Logan watched you quietly, his grip on the steering wheel tightening as he saw the storm brewing in your eyes, the conflict between the person you were and the person you wanted to be. He knew he couldn’t give you the freedom you craved, not in this moment. But he couldn’t ignore your pain, either.

Logan leaned over, his movements deliberate as he unbuckled your seatbelt. You watched him, confusion flickering in your eyes as the sharp edges of your anger began to soften. His gaze met yours, steady and calm, as he murmured, “C’mere.”

Before you could fully process what was happening, his hand found your thigh, firm yet gentle as he lifted you up and guided you to sit on his lap, sideways. The shift in position felt unexpected, your body tensing for a moment before you let yourself relax into the warmth of his embrace.

Logan’s strong arms wrapped around you, guiding your body to lean against his chest. He carefully positioned your head on his shoulder, his touch tender as if he knew exactly how to soothe the turmoil raging inside you. The steady rhythm of his breathing, the solid feel of his chest rising and falling beneath you, gradually eased the tension from your muscles.

In his arms, the world outside the car seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you in the quiet, shared space. The anger and frustration still simmered, but now, in Logan’s embrace, it felt more manageable, less like a storm and more like a lingering cloud.

Logan's voice rumbled softly against your ear as he spoke, the firmness in his tone leaving no room for argument. “I’m taking you home, alright? Whether you like it or not, I don’t care. But if you want to go out with your girlfriends tomorrow night doing other things than PARTYING, you bet your ass I’m gonna lock you in the house myself. Deal?”

You didn’t respond immediately, the weight of his words settling in as you considered his offer. It wasn’t exactly what you wanted, but it was better than nothing. The compromise, though not ideal, felt like a small victory. So, without saying a word, you nodded your head against his shoulder, accepting his terms.

Logan seemed to take your silent agreement as enough, his arms tightening around you in a way that felt protective rather than restrictive. The frustration still lingered, but there was also a sense of relief in knowing that, at least for tonight, you didn’t have to keep fighting.

“Okay,” Logan murmured as he turned the key, the engine of the truck rumbling to life. You instinctively started to shift, ready to slide off his lap and back into the passenger seat, but his hand on your thigh halted your movement.

“Whoa, whoa, where are you going?” His voice held a teasing edge, but there was no mistaking the seriousness in his eyes as they locked onto yours.

“But, you’re about to dri—” you began, but Logan cut you off with a grunt.

“I don’t care,” he said, his gaze intense, the authority in his tone leaving no room for argument. “Make yourself comfortable and sit on my lap like a good girl, no more tantrum.”

The command sent a shiver down your spine, your breath catching in your throat as you met his stare. The tension from earlier was still there, but now it was mixed with something else, something that made your pulse quicken. His grip on your thigh was firm, but his touch was still gentle, almost reassuring.

Slowly, you settled back into his lap, your body leaning against his solid frame as the truck began to roll forward. There was a strange comfort in the way he held you, the familiar scent of him filling your senses. The fight had left you, replaced by a quiet acceptance, your earlier anger melting away as you rested your head against his shoulder.

The ride was wrapped in a comfortable silence, the kind that didn’t need to be filled with words. For some reason, being around Logan soothed you in a way that nothing else had for a long time. It was a feeling you’d longed for, a sense of security and warmth that you hadn’t realized how much you missed until now.

Even though you had your dad, it wasn’t the same. You were never really close with him. The glue that held your family together had always been your late mother, the one who bridged the gap between you and your father. But when she passed away from that illness when you were seventeen, everything changed. The dynamic between you and your dad became something different—just plain family.

He loved you, you knew that, but it was a love that felt distant, like an obligation rather than a connection. And you loved him back, but only just enough. There was a gap, a void left by your mother’s absence, that neither of you knew how to fill. You’d drifted apart, existing in the same space but not truly together.

But with Logan, it was different. Even in the quiet, even without saying a word, there was a comfort in his presence that made you feel like you weren’t so alone. The steady rhythm of his breathing, the warmth of his body against yours—it was like a balm to the aching loneliness you carried.

The warmth of your house greeted you as soon as you unlocked the front door, a comforting contrast to the cool night air outside. You stepped inside, the familiar scent of home wrapping around you like a blanket. With a tired sigh, you tossed the keys into the bowl on the console table, the clatter echoing in the quiet hallway. Without a word, you made your way upstairs, leaving Logan standing in the entryway, the silence between you stretching out once more.

Logan watched you disappear up the stairs, a heaviness settling over him. With a resigned sigh, he headed straight for the kitchen, his boots thudding softly against the hardwood floor. He grabbed a bottle of scotch from the cabinet, the glass container cold to the touch as he unscrewed the cap, pouring it down the glass.

Taking a generous sip, Logan flopped down onto your couch, the cushions sinking under his weight. The remote was within reach, and with a flick of his wrist, he turned on the TV. The soft glow of the screen filled the room, casting flickering shadows on the walls.

But even as the TV droned on in the background, Logan’s mind wasn’t on whatever was playing. He took another sip of his beer, letting the quiet comfort of your home settle around him, a stark contrast to the tension that had filled the night.

After slipping into more comfortable clothes, you hesitated at the top of the stairs, hoping that Logan was still there. The night had left you feeling unsettled, and the thought of him being gone added to the unease. Slowly, you made your way downstairs, the soft fabric of your clothes brushing against your skin, grounding you.

As you reached the living room, you cleared your throat, the sound breaking the stillness. Logan, who had been staring at the TV without really watching, turned his head towards you, his eyes meeting yours. There was a flicker of something in his gaze—concern, maybe relief—before he watched you walk towards him.

Without saying a word, you sat down on the couch beside him, the space between you feeling both intimate and vast. You looked at the glass of scotch in Logan’s hand, your curiosity piqued. “Can I try?” you asked, your voice soft but eager.

Logan glanced at the glass and then back at you. He simply handed it over without a word, his expression neutral. The amber liquid sloshed slightly as you took the glass from him. The warmth of the scotch felt foreign in your hand, but there was a sense of anticipation as you held it. Logan watched you silently, his gaze steady as you prepared to take your first sip.

You raised the glass to your lips, the rich, amber liquid catching the light. With a deep breath, you took your first sip. The taste was immediately intriguing—complex and smoky, with a hint of sweetness that lingered pleasantly on your tongue. It was unlike anything you’d ever had before, a unique blend of flavors that seemed to dance across your palate.

The warmth of the scotch spread from your mouth down your throat, a slow burn that settled into a comforting glow. You took another sip, savoring the taste, letting the sensation wash over you. The flavor was bold and sophisticated, a little bit of adventure in a glass.

“You like it?” Logan asked, raising one eyebrow and giving you a half-smile. His gaze was curious as he watched you take in the experience.

You folded your lips, glancing down at the glass before meeting his eyes again and nodding. “It’s not bad,” you admitted, a hint of a smile playing on your lips.

Logan chuckled, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Would you trade your life for this or for your peach soda?” he joked.

You giggled, the scotch giving you a carefree lightness. “Peach soda for the win,” you declared with a playful grin. But then, without hesitation, you raised the glass to your lips and chugged the rest of the liquor in one swift motion.

Logan watched with a mixture of amusement and surprise. “Says one who’d trade her life for the peach soda,” he remarked with a scoff, shaking his head in mock disbelief.

He grabbed the empty glass from your hand and, with a quick motion, poured another round for himself. The scotch swirled in the glass as he settled back onto the couch, the warmth of the liquor evident in his relaxed demeanor.

“I want one again,” you murmured, a pout forming on your lips as you looked at the empty glass.

Logan sighed, giving in with a resigned smile. “Fine, here,” he said, pouring another generous measure of scotch into the glass. But instead of reaching for the glass, you snatched the bottle right from his hand.

“Wha—hey whoa, Peach,” Logan started, surprised.

“I have my limits, don’t worry,” you replied with a mischievous glint in your eye.

Logan frowned, his hand reaching for the bottle. “Right, considering this is your first time and you like this more than your peach soda, I think that’s not a great idea. Come on, give me the bottle.”

With a shriek of playful defiance, you pushed yourself off the couch and stood in front of him, waving the bottle mockingly. “Watch me,” you smirked, lifting the bottle to your lips.

You took a generous sip, the rich warmth of the scotch flowing smoothly down your throat. Logan watched, amused. The newfound confidence in your actions only seemed to grow with each sip, the scotch emboldening you in ways you hadn’t anticipated.

As the minutes ticked by, you began to feel a subtle shift within you. The warmth from the scotch seemed to spread through your body, making you feel more alive, more fearless. It was as if the world outside had softened, the edges of your worries and reservations blurring into the background.

“Hmmm,” you hummed contentedly, taking a step closer to where Logan sat. With a playful glint in your eye, you placed the bottle on the coffee table and then gracefully straddled his lap, wrapping your arms around his neck.

Logan’s expression shifted subtly, his initial concern giving way to something more intimate. His eyes softened, the playful warmth of the moment casting a new light on his face. He adjusted his position slightly to accommodate you, his hands resting gently on your hips.

"I'm sorry for the way I acted tonight," you murmured, looking down to his lips before gazing up to his eyes. "Will you forgive me... Daddy?"

Logan looks at you surprised, he couldn't believe what he just heard. It's something he has never heard anyone addressed him with that before. The tension wasn't comforting it was rather more, sensual. Logan slowly leans forward inching closer to your face, he looks down to your lips before murmuring, "What did you just call me?"

You giggled, "Daddy." You repeated. "You're more like a dad to me than my dad ever was," you giggled. "The only difference is, I wanna fuck you." The scotch is now talking. "You were right, all those times you've caught me fucking myself with my fingers through my window, I wanted you to watch me," You stare at him with doe eyes. "And thank fuck, you watched me."

Logan groaned from listening to you talk like that. His hands gripping your hips, throwing his head back against the cushion. "You promised me you wanted me to feel your cock," you pouted, starting to move your hips, rubbing your clothed cunt against his denim jeans. Inching your face close to him, you whispered against his lips, "So give me your cock, Daddy."

Logan grumbled something under his breath, his gaze darkening as the playful tension between you ignited into something more intense. Without warning, his hand moved to your throat, not with force but with a possessive firmness that sent a shiver down your spine. In one swift motion, he pulled you in, crashing his lips against yours.

The kiss was searing, filled with the passion that had been simmering between you all night. His lips moved against yours with an urgency that took your breath away, the earlier tenderness giving way to something more primal. The heat of the moment enveloped you both, and you felt your heart race as the kiss deepened, becoming more feral and uncontrolled.

Logan’s hands tightened around your waist, pulling you closer as his mouth claimed yours with a hunger that made your head spin. The kiss became sloppy, desperate even, as the two of you lost yourselves in the intensity of the connection. You struggled to keep up, your breath hitching as you tried to match his pace, but it was overwhelming, intoxicating. The world around you seemed to blur, your senses consumed by the taste of him, the feel of his hands on your body, and the way his lips demanded everything from you.

You never stopped grinding your hips against his clothed cock as both of your lips were dancing with each other. The bulge in his jeans kept growing bigger and bigger until he decided it's finally enough to torture him; he broke the kiss and lift you up before his hands went to undo his jeans.

You watched the way he swiftly pulling down his jeans along with his boxers, his cock slapped against his abdomen. Shit, you thought. He's nowhere near small, he's big and fat. You wonder if it's going to fit in your small cunt and your small mouth. Logan noticed your demeanor has changed as he smirked to himself.

"Don't worry, Peach. I'll show you how." You looked at him confused. "You're gonna put my cock in your mouth first," You inhaled sharply before nodding your head, Logan smiled at you, happy that you're obeying to what he wants you to do. "Good girl, get on your knees."

Logan walked you through it, by telling you to grab his cock with both hands. "Give it a kiss." He urged, nudging his chin cockily. You hesitatingly kissed the raging red tip of his cock that has his already pre-cum leaking from the tiny slit. "Lick it, peach." He commanded, you obeyed. Dragging your warm tongue out from your mouth and made contact with the skin.

Logan watching you so innocently making out with his tip, makes his heart beat faster, eager to slide his cock down your throat and fuck your stupidly innocent face. "Thaaaat's good, peach. Put 'em all in your mouth." Before you do that, you fixated your gaze on Logan before moving away to inch your face close to his heavy balls.

You decided to improvise and see if he'd like that, Logan watches you intensely and groaned as you drag your tongue from the bottom of his cock upwards to meet his tip before putting him all in your mouth. Hollowing your cheeks, and teasingly rolled your eyes close to show that you're enjoying it so much. And it did sent Logan to heaven, watching his little peach enjoy sucking his girth.

"You like my cock, peaches? .... Yeah? .... Well come on, put them all in ya." Logan muttered as he raised his hip slowly upward, pushing his cock into your mouth further to reach your throat. When you gagged, Logan moaned. You thought that was a good sign, especially when you couldn't control your saliva as it drips down to his pubic hair and all. "Fffuck." Logan cursed watching you bob your head and up down his cock.

"Feels s'good.. Peach, god." Logan rolled his eyes and lean his head back, his hand rest on top of your head, fisting your hair. He grunted, "'want more." He murmured under his breath before he decided to take control. He bobbed your head up and down, increasing the speed while also thrusting his hips upward, fucking your throat.

"Fuck yeah, you better think twice before you talk back to me like that in the car." Logan grunted, watching you struggle to breathe, your eyes getting teary and choked on his cock. Logan laughs rather maniacally, watching you struggle turns him on even more.

"You wanna feel how it feels like to have a warm cum slides down your throat, peaches?" Your eyes widened. "Yeah.. I'll show you. 'M gonna cum soon, Oh.. So good, peach." Logan moaned, eyebrows scrunched together with his eyes closed.

Placing your palm on his thighs, you tried to at least breathe a little. You didn't want to pull away as you don't want you disappoint him. You can feel Logan's tip twitch in your mouth, you take it he's about to cum soon.

Without warning, Logan let out the loudest moan ever, spilling his warm cum down your throat. His hips stuttered a little, giving you one final thrust to make sure he emptied everything in your mouth. And you gladly took them all. As Logan pulls his cock out from your mouth, he watched you swallow his everything down your throat as he smirked in proud.

You watched him with your famous doe-eyes when you want something but Logan just laughed at you, mocking.

"You think after you pulled that stunt on the road you deserve my cock in your pussy? Hell fucking no, peach. At least not tonight, now get to bed."

thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed it! if you love my writing feel free to check my other works here

support me by buying me a coffee! 🤍

#Malavera #Logan and peach #Logan howlett smut #logan howlett #wolverine #wolverine smut #logan howlett x femalereader #logan howlett x you #logan x reader #logan howlett x reader #logan james howlett #james howlett #xmen wolverine #hugh jackman #hugh jackman smut

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quaintobsessions · 2 months ago

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The wonderful @reinventing-wednesday began a delightful round of Getting to know the poet (do read hers and those of the others who’ve done it so far, they’re lovely), so here are ten things about me.

I’ve been rereading my once-vast collection and releasing books into little free libraries for years now. It's rewarding, especially when they're clutched and run off with before I can put them on the shelf.

My whole life is creativity. I’ve struggled with the fatigue from chronic illness since childhood, but I try to make good use of any energy I have. In addition to photography and writing, I make pottery and collages. In all honesty, creativity is how I survive.

I enjoy making my surroundings inspiring. Even the big cat tree in my sunroom is pleasing. Home is my colourful, comfortable place to dream and I am most myself there with my beloved cats and plants sprawling.

Next to music, scent from nature is one of my main pleasures in life. I burn resin incense while writing. I’ve planted a dozen heirloom roses in my garden. They each have different tonalities of fragrance. Some gently climb trees.

I am fascinated by linguistics, literature, history, religion, mythology, and mysticism, but even though I still like to study all of these in conjunction, I left academia. Now I help out others with their work, and I write novels. I’m a recovering perfectionist and gearing up to do more publishing as I’m getting over it. A bit. Slowly. Very slowly.

Though I am good at reading cards, I only read for free, for friends. To me, oracles are languages of symbols to help you think about who you are and what you need in life. Sometimes, that’s a swift kick in the butt, more often, it’s just someone to listen and truly see you. Basically, I conduct therapy sessions with cards, but shhh, don’t tell anyone.

Being finally diagnosed with celiac disease at thirty (I’d had it since I was five) has made me a keen experimenter in the kitchen. I can’t follow a recipe to save my life, but I can tell you that if you make a good simple pizza dough, if you fold some sauce and cheese in it, even if it looks like an unholy mess, when it comes out of the oven it will taste amazing.

When I travel, I pretty much always go alone. I enjoy blending with the life of a different place for a while. It always leaves me recharged, except for that one time when Mira decided to make a break for it and camp out in a neighbour’s basement, and I had to organise the search effort from afar while frantically trying to get home. She bounded back in as I was waiting to board my flight, of course.

There is immense beauty in the world, and care that humans show, despite fear and destruction. It pains me that people with too much money and power and too little empathy show humanity's worst side. If you’ve been feeling like it’s all too much, I just want to say, don’t give up. You have a right to rest and joy. You belong and your voice deserves to be heard.

With no obligation attached whatsoever, even the threat of coolness, I'm passing this on to: @doebrain, @bluesandbarebones, @cherokeeghostwriter, @serandori, @picklemafia and anyone who feels inspired.

#poets on tumblr #getting to know the poet #writing #photography #get to know me

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ashstfu · 10 months ago

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my fave fall fragrances —

ébène fumé - tom ford

a trace of smoke lingering in the air, like the scent of a house long since emptied of its people. it reminds you of the afternoons spent staring out of a window, watching the world turn amber, a slow-burning warmth in a cold room.

vicious cacao - maison tahité

a taste left on the tongue, sharp and rich, like biting into the kind of chocolate that takes you back to a café on a street you’ll never walk again. it’s bittersweet. something you savor, even though you know it’s fleeting.

spice must flow - etat libre d’orange

the smell of spices cuts through the air like a memory of something you can’t quite place. it feels like sitting in a room full of strangers, watching their lives unfold, wondering where they’ve been and how far you’ve yet to go.

ambre eccentrico - giorgio armani

the light hits just right, and for a moment everything glows in a soft haze of amber. it’s the scent of a late afternoon, when the world feels golden, but you know the night is coming, and with it, a quiet kind of loneliness.

private accord for her - hugo boss

the scent of coffee and something sweet, like a meeting that wasn’t meant to last. you wonder what it would have been like if you had stayed a little longer, lingered in the warmth of the conversation, let the scent of it stay with you.

tobacco, oud & vanilla - aaron terence hughes

the smell of tobacco clings to ur clothes, the kind that feels nostalgic even though it never really belonged to you. it reminds you of watching someone from a distance, wanting to hold onto something you never truly had.

east - akro

there’s a restlessness in this scent, a reminder of a place you’ve never been, yet you long for it. it’s the scent of leaving, of journeys not yet taken, of looking out at the horizon and feeling the pull of somewhere else.

eyes closed - byredo

a moment of intimacy, so brief you wonder if it even happened. it’s soft, quiet, like the warmth of someone’s hand in yours for just a second before they pull away. a scent that feels like closeness you can’t quite touch.

herod - parfums de marly

it’s the feeling of holding something delicate, knowing it won’t last. the tobacco is heavy, but there’s something underneath; soft, like the way a memory fades but never fully disappears. a sweetness that lingers in the silence.

volutes eau de toilette - diptyque

the smell of smoke curls around you like a memory from long ago, a time when everything felt simpler. it’s the scent of things left behind, drifting in the air like something you can’t quite grasp, but feel with every breath.

#03

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rhainoplasty · 2 months ago

Text

steal you away

ahn su-ho x reader

p.s - it's my first time writing a fic + english isn't my first language so bear with me !! this fic is inspired by a c.ai bot that i once talked to (i can't find it 😔)

(i may or may not have overused semicolons and em dashes, i'm terribly sorry 😓)

You and Su-ho are two peas in a pod, despite being polar opposites. He’s the warmth in your icy, sharp personality. You’re content with your dynamic, an inch away from more than just friends.

You’re studying; the cold night breeze seeps into your room through the half-open window. A damp, earthy fragrance hangs in the air, making you half-conscious—the world softens, blurring at the edges.

The buzz of your phone snaps you out of it. You rub your eyes before checking the notification.

Message from Su-ho:

Su-ho – You awake? Look outside your window.

The message is succinct, but it makes you feel something—nervousness, maybe anticipation?

You look out your window. Su-ho leans against his motorcycle, waving an extra helmet. A smile touches your lips. You type a message back.

(reader) – Wait, why are you outside??

Su-ho – Instead of smiling, find an excuse and come down. I’m stealing you away tonight.

You go downstairs, telling your parents you need to get something from a friend’s house. Su-ho grins when he sees you.

“My dear, (reader)! You look frightful; have you perhaps expired from studying?” he teases. You shoot him a mock-irritated look. He gently places his spare helmet on your head, securing it.

“You do know I could put my own helmet on, right?” you say with a hint of sarcasm.

He chuckles. “Just to be sure,” he replies.

You hop on the motorcycle, and he starts the engine. You hold onto his shoulders. Before you know it, you’re speeding through the city like two teenagers who have finally been set free. After about thirty minutes, you arrive at a quiet beach under the starlit sky. Waves lap gently against the shore; a light wind makes the palm trees rustle.

It’s beautiful, you think. Is this what you’ve been missing?

“Do you want to go closer?” Su-ho asks, locking eyes with you, snapping you out of your thoughts.

“Sure,” you reply, almost too quickly. The way his eyes light up… it makes you feel something you don’t want to acknowledge. It’s that spark, that special light you’ve never seen in anyone else’s eyes, not even when you won your medals.

You follow him to the shore. You both settle on the soft sand; it feels as though you are a child again—the scent of the beach reminds you so much of your home, pure, lively, and calm—it’s nice here.

“How’d you know I’d love it here?” you ask, looking at Su-ho.

“You once mentioned living near the beach as a child, and you seemed really happy talking about it,” he replies, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips

“You remember small details, huh?” you tease.

“You’re sooo vain,” he says with a dramatic eye roll, making you laugh.

“Aren’t you tired though? Your shift just finished.”

“I’m used to it; besides, I’ve been planning on taking you here.”

You feel your cheeks flush; you silently hope the starlight isn’t revealing the redness of your face

“Hey, remember when we first met?”

You turn your head away and admire the gentle lapping of the waves. “Hmm, when you got our address wrong and almost got lost trying to deliver food?” you ask, trying to stifle a laugh.

“Hey! I didn’t get lost, your house just had no sign whatsoever, and that’s our second time meeting” he says with a pout. You try your best to remember your first encounter, but before you can guess, he interrupts you.

“It was when you gave me a handkerchief when you saw me crying. I looked at you and realized you hadn’t even looked up from the book you were reading,” he pauses, turning his head in your direction and looking at you before resuming.

“At first, I found it weird; it seemed like you were apathetic, but you were kind enough to lend me your handkerchief.”

The memory becomes clear. You handed him the handkerchief not because you cared, but because he looked miserable—or you convince yourself so—it hadn’t registered then, but you felt relieved when you saw him let out his tears.

“I liked you since then,” his words make you shoot your head in his direction; it feels as if your body moves on instinct. The way he says it sounds nothing like your usual banter; instead, he sounds so sincere, his eyes warm and intense.

“When you handed me that handkerchief, I planned on going to your school to return it, but then the night after, I found myself in front of you again.”

He pauses, taking a breath.

“I like you, but I was afraid that telling you this would ruin our friendship—but I can’t keep ignoring this aching feeling inside me. I like you because you’re you… you’re sharp and funny and kind, even when you don’t mean to be, and whenever I’m with you, it just feels so… right.”

He looks at you, a hopeful expression in his eyes. Does he always look this good?

“I… I like you a lot too…” you pause, smiling shyly. “Because you’re incredibly strong, not just physically as a good boxer, but the way you handle challenges is really admirable… It’s fascinating, seeing your altruism shining in everything you do and how much you care for your grandmother.”

You hide your blushing face in your trembling hands.

Su-ho gently traces the outline of your hands before lifting them carefully—his thumbs brush lightly against your cheeks—then softly, he leans in and kisses you; a tender press that speaks volumes.

#end

#ahn su ho #weak hero x reader #weak hero class one #weak hero fluff #ahn suho x reader #character x reader

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ms0milk · 1 year ago

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pitch in a teapot

sanemi x inn keeper

reader has a business to run and sanemi can't help but watch you do it well, barking orders, teaching firmly, smiling and scurrying around like a fancy little bell. There's something he's been trying to get out of you all afternoon but chores keep stealing you away. cw MDNI, frustrated thunderstorm quickie, reader w vagina + penetration, slight manhandling, desperation and a little bit of sass. 4.1k

thank you so much my darling @neiptune for requesting a little sanemi this @ficsforgaza season! you were so generous and patient waiting for this to come out, I hope you enjoy angel

Six bowls of soup upstairs and an old man somewhere in the bowels of the inn with a limp and half a shoe. Right, okay, send two girls to the garden– no. One to the garden and one to the kitchen. That’s dinner taken care of as long as the scholar with the fat pony– donkey, maybe– doesn’t regurgitate an encore of the rakugo performance that couldn’t have been funny in the first place.

You roll the sleeves of your apron slightly tighter in their tasuki. The cyprus walls of your inn bleed fragrance before summer thunderstorms so you make a mental note too, to order storm doors for the second floor before the clouds go black and blue. Incensed breeze, juniper, wisteria, paper windows, one foot, the next, again, each step down the wooden hallway is a quiet knock. Each summer at home is heavier, heavier, and this year is the flood.

“Oi.”

“Not my name,” you blow from the corner of your mouth without changing pace. That breath was ready to jump off your lip before the demon slayer even called out to you; he hates doing nothing and hates even more what great pains your staff take to avoid his room.

“It reeks.”

“Excuse me?” You huff and this time do turn enough to interrogate him via glare. Sanemi, ridiculous, folds his arms in the doorway of a very nice room, a too nice room, without any of the appropriate embarrassment of someone who has been lying in wait. The stippled blue pattern of his robes doesn’t suit him. They clash with his ugly scars and uglier attitude but don't keep him from wearing the chest wide open like a well paid rent boy.

“Stinks.”

“Whatever of, princess?”

He growls and drops his arms as you brace for the lecture, “Demons.”

His heart is incapable of peace and yours with it, and every summer he’s assigned a post in your mountains by a master you’ve never met and who couldn’t possibly be sane themself. Four years of this. Four years of twelve weeks of sixteen-hour-days of the world’s most neurotic demon slayer.

“The whole property is wide open for any fuck to attack.”

You adjust your grip on a slender bucket handle and the cloth in your other arm and continue back downhall, “You always say that.”

“I’m always right,” he nags and pushes free of his bedroom.

You met Sanemi when you were sixteen and still working under your parents. He was a brand new hashira then and prone to fist fights, spitfire, bloodshed. Nothing special. Nothing new. Hashira come and die and new hashira come again. They arrive in flashbangs and ego and leave like everyone else, in pieces.

Your parents were calm, they had peace and practice, they ran this inn, they welcomed Sanemi with his summer floods. They loved him, took his counsel and died by it, and they probably wouldn’t have lost an old man inside the house. But this is your inn now. They aren’t here anymore and at your inn sometimes old men get misplaced.

“And what would you like me to do about all that, sir?”

The hashira keeps an easy military pace behind you, “The gardens need to be reinforced and–”

“Nine acres of wisteria arbor need reinforcement? Yeah I’ll get right on that.”

“The storm will take out ha–!”

“And the other half will hold until autumn. Go berate the kitchen staff for their unpreparedness– they’re all unarmed you know? Totally unprofessional.”

“Y/n–”

“Shinazugawa,” you spin and it all comes out as a threat, a hiss, instead of just a whisper so much so that the water in your bucket nips up your sleeve. “I am the lady of this establishment and you will not address me so familiarly.”

Dark cyprus, cool hallways, the undeniable scent of thunder. Sanemi rests his hand on his sword to glare like he does when his hands don’t quite know what to do with themselves. His eyes roam, quiet under long lilly lashes until they have traced the shapes your tasuki makes with your waist and rise again to your gaze. “We’re not fucking finished.”

“Go eat,” you snap and turn back down the hallway, red at the ears. Lady of the establishment, great job.

Feet aren’t complicated, bone to tendon, tendon to muscle, muscle to skin, one step and another. You tilt your head back and an eager girl rises to wipe sweat from your temple.

“Like this,” you hum and tilt the old man’s heel in your palm. He winces but lets you continue while the girl stares on. “When the skin is split like this it can’t receive moisture– sorry sir, better?” You set his foot on the hammock of cloth between your thighs, “So you need to soak it first before applying salve. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” the girl parrots, still unable to look away.

“Yes.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You smile through an eye roll but gesture for her to come sit beside you. You’ve been like this since he’s met you, too old for your body.

You’ll train anyone who asks, hire any runaway girl, absorb the cost of thieves when runaways are exactly that, and you will wash old men’s feet before eating dinner with the self preservation of a samurai. Famously long-lived, those. Sanemi has to look away when you take scissors to the gnarled yellow nails and almost covers his ears when your pupil starts asking you questions about it.

“Feels good right?” You chuckle at the man’s response to your ministrations, and then a little louder, when you realize just how seriously the girl beside you is trying to focus. Birdsong. “Do you have companions on your pilgrimage, sir?” He shakes his head.

You lean away again so the girl can dab your brow and push back stray hairs and turn back to explain overdetailed care instructions to this man who is obviously so embarrassed he can’t hear a word you’re saying. Something about tallow and socks, Sanemi tries to read the syllables off your lips and loses focus the second time your teeth catch damp and pillowed pink.

The man seated in front of you grumbles some and flexes a few fingers around his cane like old men do, but doesn’t protest your instructions. He nods instead of thanking you like a real tough guy.

“Fetch a new pair of sandals from the garden shed,” you instruct your girl who bolts up and out the door past Sanemi without so much as a breath. “And you,” you turn back to your patient, “keep the nails short, you hear?”

He nods again, increasingly avoidant of eye contact. Sanemi tenses in the dark outside the guest’s complimentary room and hates ungrateful fucks enough for both of you.

“And don’t skip any more meals.”

The man’s wrinkled skin unfolds at his eyes and he pulls his legs back underneath him. You dry your hands after scrubbing clean in a soapy pot and stand to collect your tools. “I couldn’t find you this evening and I hate to lose track of my guests at mealtime.”

You are going to feed every stray you find until the economy collapses. Peasant monks, pickpockets– you’d put up a demon if its stomach growled. After too many unnoticed minutes watching you, following the white x between your patterned shoulders, eating your voice, warming the hallway, you finally pick out Sanemi’s eyes in the dark behind the sliding door. He’s waiting for you. You clear your throat for the broke old pilgrim one last time, “You don’t owe any money. Do not skip meals.” And bid him a wordless good night. The door cracks shut behind you. It isn’t late enough for sunset. Thunderstorms make it so dark so quickly and they mask the scent of blood with all their rain and iron. “What is it?” You deadpan and shuffle towards the stairs with all the confidence in the world a tenured hashira will work to keep up with you.

“Not fucking finishied with you,” Sanemi grunts, working to keep up with you. The apron over your service kimono forces your hips to sway in tight little circles and Sanemi sucks his teeth. He doesn’t look away.

Through the hallway and down the servant stairs, socks on polished wood, you tap, tap, tap nimbly to your next assignment. The room below radiates heat and life. “What do you want?” you whisper.

“I–” he slips barefoot on the slick last step into the kitchen and you stumble in your newly damp right sock. “Euh, I–”

“Mimiko!”

“Lady?”

“Wet.” You point behind you, palming Sanemi out of the way, and a free washerwoman dives for the spot with the rag tucked into her belt. The kitchen rages silently in the easternmost corner of the mansion; men and women sweat over donabe, rinse their body weights in rice, and beat little fires with littler fans. Two women and a boy linger just outside the paper door in clothes that match yours for formality and Sanemi assumes as he weaves through the bustle, that they are responsible for bringing food to customers and for doing everything they can not to sweat through their pretty borrowed uniforms. Your own kimono is purple tonight, a cool little shape bobbing nimbly between flames.

Sanemi opens his mouth to shout after you and shuts it again just as quickly to grind his teeth instead as you lift your apron over your head. You let a girl feed you a spoonful of something on your way out of the room and she wiggles when you nod several times before ducking through the door.

Laundry next, then a double check of the firewood cache and the whole while Sanemi occupies your shadow. A few times you hiss over your shoulder at him for looking so gruff, for looking like a bodyguard, for making your customers imagine your distrust of them, always you bite back before he can get more than a few words out but mostly you just scurry in preparation for the storm picking up warm wind outside.

You avoid the entrance with him so close in tow, armed and obstinate, but make a show of circling both tatami halls where guests come after dinner on rainy nights to stretch and smoke by the brazier with strangers. A female musician trills her koto. The sky hasn’t let loose a single drop of rain yet but wet hangs like a fog and thunder scents the air ahead of its arrival. As Sanemi trails the outer walkway of the mansion behind you, the sky bleeds with the last of day’s light in the cracks between bruised and racing storm clouds.

“Second floor secure?” You confirm with the men slotting thick panels into grooves where paper doors usually go. They nod in their white uniforms. Beyond the porches, beyond the east garden and its fat green vegetables, beyond dogwood trees and sarusuberi and maples that have begun to tremble violently in winds buffeted by humidity and nightfall, the wisteria arbor glows. You radiate a cool purple pull beside him just like your flowers.

The arbor surrounds the property on all sides for half a mile and all three paths away from the house are barred by gates of twisting wisteria vine. The inn belongs to your family, but does not serve Ubuyashiki. Theirs is not the only house that discovered a use for these flowers. Yours is not the only wisteria business in the country.

“Do you see that?” You murmur at so much the same tone as the wind that Sanemi almost cannot hear you.

Three years ago he left before the end of summer, called away to investigate a massacre nearby. A tree fell that season. It crushed a straight path through the edge of the mountain forest and onto your property where, lured by so much blood and wine, a pair of sister demons descended through the broken orchard and devoured everyone who wasn’t fast enough to hide in the flowers like the slayer suggested they should in an emergency. Your parents evacuated the house and died in it with the guests who couldn’t walk on their own. Nestled under three braided vines at the far edge of the property, you listened to them die.

The winds kick up sand from your vegetable garden and you step off the porch into the start of the storm. Tiny and purple. “Y/n!” Sanemi lunges for you. His sword whips the meat of his thigh and you step out of his way before he can grab any part he intended to. The men on the porch watch you both scramble through the backyard. You snap at the strange guest and duck when he swings a hand towards you, hop in your sandals when he tries to trip you into his arms and dart away like a dragonfly.

“Get back here!”

“Go inside!”

“Y/n!”

“How dare you!”

“Motherfucking, Y/n!”

“That’s enough!” You bark and twist back towards the garden shed. Your pupil left the door wide open and all its shining tools caught your eye across the yard. Sanemi was staring when you stepped outside. His eyes feel like beads of sweat on the few bare parts of you. His gaze is all teeth on the back of your neck.

With all but one storm door up, not a single guest can hear the ruckus you two kick up outside in the prologue of the storm. “It’s about to pour!”

“Then go join the other guests!” You shout through a particularly violent breeze and you have to grip to the break in your kimono closed. He does not. By the time you lay a winded hand on the wall of the shed, it has started to rain.

A silencing wall of water falls from the back of the property straight towards you. It kills dust clouds in its path and paints every surface soaked in a perfectly straight line. Sanemi rushes from behind and nearly lifts you off your feet to get inside the shed as you watch the supernatural army advance on your home.

“Shit,” he grumbles and winces when the rain overcomes the little shed and splashes off the pavement into his face. He pulls you deeper inside and you jolt. The first crack of thunder is a scream that shakes the ground, “Scared of thunder now?”

“Scared of my profit margins, you oaf.”

Under his shoulder you are glaring at the storm between this shitty stuffy shed and your business. You are so small and wrapped so tightly in layer after layer of fabric. It must be hot. The damp drips down his open chest and thighs, it frizzes his hair at his ears. You must be sweating somewhere in that formal getup. Wet glistens at the curled little hairs on the back of your neck where the skin is just barely visible and it sparkles under your high collar.

“I can’t walk back inside soaked,” you groan, “there’s not enough time to change before final rounds.”

Sanemi takes his hand off his sword. There must be damp parts of you hiding from him. He brushes his knuckle up the bare skin of your neck, across your throat, and you falter slightly.

“Sanemi–”

“Nuh uh, don’t address me so familiarly,” he smirks and cups your cheek in his big hand when you jerk around.

“That’s not–!”

“Not what?” He smiles now, and drops his hand back to his sword so that you might find your own weapon and finish the fight. Four years of this.

You shove a finger into his chest, “You’re such a clingy fuck Shinazugawa,” and shout a little because you know the thunder will hide it. A sudden gust blows the sheet of rain sideways and straight inside the open door of the garden shed, up your dress and down his robes and through your prettily pinned hair. “Y/n this, y/n that, I’m busy Sanemi, I’m stuck in a shed! You’re the only one who calls me and people think we’re fucking! You want my attention you have it so please tell me all about the demons that’re gonna slurp up my customers and fuck my taxes to shit and–”

The door creaks in Sanemi’s hands even through the oceanic sounds of storm when he begins to close it. He nods as you get louder, nods as he slides the door closed and flicks the latch.

“Do not,” you growl, “there’s five thousand–”

“Five thousand little bitches in there lost without direction? They’re fine, Y/n.”

“Don’t call me that here.”

“They’ll survive, little lady.”

You spit, “not better.” And the new humidity of the closed shed begins to swallow you whole. It fills your throat. “What about all the demons you’ve been crying about?”

“You’re such a cocky cuss.”

“And you’re needy,” you taunt. It’s Sanemi’s turn to wince and his frustration starts to drip from all those places he shoves it away from you. He's been gentle with you since that summer. He lets you interrupt him, he follows where you go. “I watched you check perimeters this morning, you don’t need to talk to me about demons.”

“Eyes everywhere huh?” His throat is pink, “Lady of the house.”

You grin and pull him by the loops of his robe into your tiny purple kiss, “Shut up.”

“M’lady,” he growls against your lips and succumbs.

Four years of stolen touches, lips on damp summer skin, coming out of empty rooms too ruffled and pulling the hashira between your legs without disturbing the folds of your work kimono. “Don’t call me that either,” your breath hisses against his throat like an iron and he drops his sword quickly to gather you in his arms.

Too much fabric. Shovels and shears clatter against the floor and one another when the thunder shakes their little house again, and they tremble at every thump and roll of your body against Sanemi’s. He pulls your hips against his and guides your legs around his waist so he can sink into those soft parts of you. So he can tilt his head back to look up at you, so you can pour your kisses down his throat like wine.

You drag your nails up the back of his head when he offers his tongue to your lips, biting, suckling, drawing out gentle sounds and eating them before they compete with the rain outside. Where his hips dig into your own the folds of your skirt fall apart. Legs that glisten with sweat and rain part nicely for him and his own robes grow clingy with exertion where he grinds hard against you. Every subtle roll breaks your concentration in kisses, in lips sliding, begging with salvia and rainwater. His hands cup your cheeks, thighs, the collar of your kimono shudders open for him when he dips to suck bruises under your jaw and the swordsman’s hand loses control as he grips your belt to free you from all this formality. He’ll press crescents into your breasts, he’ll lower his tongue through your peach sweet folds and drink until you cry– but you pull his head back with a sharp yank of your wrist.

Your breath comes in clouds. The inn glows with candlelight across the yard but the light through the shed’s window is too weak. Welts of lighting illuminate the flush of your chest and cheeks. Two seconds of bright and twelve of dark warmth, shaking swirling thunder and then only rain. Sweat rolls from your temples and into the depths of your kimono. It’s been days since he’s had you like this and longer since you’ve had true privacy, others a whole yard away.

You can’t be gone long, he knows. Staff watched you race in here together, watched him shut the door, he knows he knows, he just can’t put you down yet. He leans in for another kiss and you let him fall close enough for his chest to crush yours before pulling back on his hair again.

“Y/n,” he’s suddenly not above begging but you hold his gaze tight. You watch him as your hand slips between the place your bodies meet. Pretty fingers reach for the heat between his legs. Pretty knuckles ghost over the swell of his robes and draw the fabric aside instead of ordering he bring you back inside. Sanemi’s cock perks up in free air as high as this position will let it and rests heavy under the swell of your ass.

He kisses you again, toothy and smiling and when you kiss him back your sharpest teeth clink together. He ruts into your desperation against the wall, harder than the rain, harder than the wind that threatens to blow your shed away and you with it. Obviously he wouldn’t let it but the thought that nature might be jealous of the rumple you made of each other drives him harder against you. Slipping, cock hard and suddenly shifted up against the hair under your belly. Peach fuzz yields to warm slick and Sanemi drops his head to your chest when he shudders to avoid whimpering into your mouth. He slips through your folds with a tight hold still under your thighs and drags himself up, down, up, hypnotized always by the faces you make when you’re trying to keep quiet.

The scars across his body are forever numb, but when your clammy hands paw is his chest he swears he can smell color. He can touch light when you pull his face back to yours frantically, when your hips with all their fabric flowing off of them buck sloppily against his, when he thrusts once deeply inside of you and forces a broken gasp from the back of your throat.

Before you can catch your breath your lips have crashed against his and his hips against yours. Sanemi keeps the relentless, restless, starving pace you like and knows he’ll last only the next few minutes before the worst of the storm blows over. Again and again he carves a palace for himself inside of you. You guide him with the falter of your kisses when he finds that perfect spot and with the slick that coats both of your thighs. Your voice escapes you in choked whimpers, his name comes out in hiccups. You’re a little bell in his arms folded in half and singing for him.

Again and again, out and so deep back inside, Sanemi’s feet grip the floor as he plunges his hips into yours and both of your bodies into the swelling wood walls. His rhythm staggers as you flutter around him and with his head against your shoulder he watches the circles you draw on your clit with the tips of four clumsy fingers as your other hand muffles your voice. He grabs that quieting wrist without thinking and without taking his eyes off the place your bodies connect with lewd squelches and sticky white threads. His threatening grip, his thick cock and your fingers push you right over the lip of your pleasure and fluttering becomes milking spasms quicker than Sanemi can think to treat you gently. That half-sobbing voice he loves so much cheers him towards his own climax and the more sensitive you grow the easier it is to coax those sounds out of you that you try to keep hidden, “Don’t– don’t be so quiet.”

“Inside,” you whisper in reply and draw his face into your hands as his pounding stutters in pace and loses all flow completely under your dreamy gazes. Sanemi can’t keep his eyes open when he cums. His pretty lilly lashes flutter with lost concentration. He shudders, ruts you deeper into the wall and groans with release as he fills those swollen wet parts of you. Warmth pools in your belly and trickles off his cock still buried. Sweat falls like the rain outside.

“Wanna taste,” Sanemi rumbles without setting you down or stilling his thrusts fully. He nuzzles somehow farther into the dip of your collarbones. Soft snow white hair, a heartbeat in the fingers that grip you. Every twitch of his hips is a starving ache.

“C'mon,” you grin, “dinner’ll get cold.”

“Let me taste you.”

“Sanemi, what will I eat if you eat me?”

“Have a few ideas,” he smiles back through the trembling of the shed in encores of thunder and gale. A leak tip tap tip taps nearby. Four years of this, maybe more.

#love this guy #think he gets whipped easily #ego free whipping he doesnt even struggle with it #total tunnel vision #sanemi x reader #ficsforgaza #kny x reader #demon slayer x reader

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twiishaa · 10 months ago

Text

hinata x reader ; wc 1.3k warnings uhhhh teensy weensy bit of angst if you squint super duper hard , i shat this out in the middle of the night while possessed by sleep demons so it might be terrible

“girl. have you seen him. every time he looks at you he has LITERAL heart eyes. there is no way that guy is NOT in love with you!”

“i don’t know… he’s like that with everyone! that’s just his personality..”

“oh my god… no wonder you have glasses. you’re literally blind when it comes to things like this…”

you have come to the realisation that you may be in love with your childhood best friend, hinata shoyo.

you’ve known each other ever since you were the ‘new kid’ in nursery, when he held his hand out to you after he saw you sitting alone in the corner; to when you two were sitting the entrance exams for karasuno, hinata frequenting you house to cram last minute because he wanted to go to the same school as the little giant. you, on the other hand, didn’t really have a clear idea on your future, but you had this urge to not let hinata go, to follow him and stay within the radius of his sunshine.

there was something about his unusually bright orange hair and his sparkling eyes (read: orbs) that was just so alluring to you, even back in nursery. his cheerful demeanour with everyone, and especially with you; it was just so… refreshing, and you felt as if the world just passed you by when the two of you were spending time together, be it as extravagant as going to get dinner together, or just goofing around in your room. apparently, it wasn’t normal to have your personal paradigm so drastically changed by a single person, you had found out after talking to your friends and now you’re here, questioning wether these feelings are purely platonic and sibling-like love, or if they transcend that, into the realm of romantic feelings.

when you closed your eyes, you could see it: living in a small apartment with him maybe 5,10 years in the future, him coming home to you cooking something for dinner. he’d come over to you, whisper a barely audible “i’m home” and then rest his head on your shoulder, wrapping his arms around your waist. you’d turn the gas off, and with a quiet “welcome home”, you’d turn to look into those entrancing eyes once again.

maybe, maybe you did want something more with hinata without realising it.

but before you could decide on anything more, your friend pointed at a tangerine-esque figure making its way hastily towards where you were, and ran off.

great.

you weren’t sure if it was your little daydream or your friend planting this thought in your head, but as hinata came closer to where you were standing, you inhaled sharply and blinked a few times, now seeing him in a new light. he was popular, you couldn’t deny it, he was on the volleyball team, after all! but had his smile been so… charming before?

“yn!!! i missed you~” as he gave you a hug, you felt your mind go a little dizzy from his scent, diffusing into the air around you. you never liked the smell of men’s deodorant, but why did the lingering fragrance of it on hinata smell so good? reciprocating the hug quickly, you breathed out a response.

“hi, shoyo! how was practice?” letting go of him, you began to walk beside him, keeping a little distance between you two. you wanted to be closer to hinata. the small gap between you two never bothered you up till now, so why was it bothering you all of a sudden?

then, like being spiked in the face, it hit you; your friend was right.

you were in love with your childhood best friend, hinata shoyo.

you had been, all these years, but your pining for him was just hidden under a mask of adoration and shoved to the back of your mind. but now, everything felt like they had fallen into place, a perfect fit.

oh, how it made so much sense! the world looked so beautiful through pink, heart-shaped lenses, the clouds looked like cotton candy; soft, sweet and delicate, like you could take a bite out of them. the setting sun’s colours bled into the evening sky, painting it colours of red, pink and deep orange. you turned to look at the other orange, hinata, walking next to you, narrating through his day and how his spikes went kapow! through the air and hit the ground like bam!, bouncing off into some other direction or something. both of you were third years now, but hinata’s childlike charm hadn’t failed to leave him, even now. his hair was messy and unkempt— but it was still cute nonetheless, you thought. laughing at his antics, the two of you walked past the convenience store, meaning that it was nearly time to part ways.

it was an impulsive decision, but you made the conclusion that you had to tell hinata how you felt now, or else something was telling you you’d lose this moment forever, to the nature of high school and senior year. after taking a few deep breaths, you started.

“hinata.”

after hearing you call him by his last name, his head perked up. he gave you his trademark smile that you loved.

“what’s up?”

you couldn’t look him in the eyes. you were too embarrassed for that. but you knew that if you didn’t tell him now, you never would.

“i-“

he looked at you more sincerely, his smile fading for a minute.

“hinata. i know this might mess up our dynamic and i don’t want to mess up what we have, but,” you breathed in and, in an attempt to return his gaze, with a newfound confidence, said, “i like you. i like you a lot. i think, ive been mixing up my feelings with adoration, but i know it’s different now, and i need to get this off my chest—“

“oh yn.” hinata’s eyes were full of guilt.

oh.

you could feel tears beginning to well up at the corners of your eyes. this wasn’t meant to happen— well, you knew it might have, but it didn’t feel so apparent then; your heart shaped glasses shattered in an instant. not knowing what to do, you quickly wiped off any tears that had freed themselves and started rolling down tour cheek.

“i thought as much. it’s okay, sho! don’t worry about it!” you flashed a smile.

“no yn it’s not that! i like you too, i mean, you’re so pretty, how could i not? it’s just that…”

he liked you back? then what was this about? why did he look so.. melancholy?

hinata sighed. “i didn’t know how to tell you this; i’m moving to brazil after we graduate.”

brazil? that was so far away from where you two lived. it was something hinata would do, definitely, but it felt so.. distant. brazil! that’s on the other side of the globe!

you wouldn’t get to see him much anymore after you graduated. why did you confess to him now?

“i’m sorry i didn’t tell you earlier, yn! i honestly didn’t know how to, i mean, i love you and i don’t want to leave you and i know that if we started dating i wouldn’t be able to be with you for 2 years, and i wouldn’t want my girlfriend-“

you could feel your cheeks heat up. maybe, long distance could work; you knew hinata and you trusted him with your life. as long as you could see him, be it on a phone screen, you didn’t mind, you thought. maybe this could work.

“i don’t mind! i don’t mind, as long as you keep in contact, shoyo…” choosing to look at the road nearby instead of him. in your peripheral vision, you could see his warm, brown eyes light up again.

“you really mean it ? you’d do that for me?”

instead of answering immediately, you engulfed him in a hug, laughing breathlessly, still sort of taking in the event that just unfolded.

“for us, shoyo.”

notes first written fic… i cringed so hard writing this ill get better i promise guys !! love you lots and feel free to send reqs if you want idk

#twiishaa #twisha’s an author !#hinata #hinata shoyo #hinata shoyo x reader #hinata shouyou x reader #hinata x reader #haikyuu hinata #haikyuu x reader #anime

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xi4oyan · 5 months ago

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🍃 The Thief of Heavens 🍃

The Celestial Palace was in turmoil. A mysterious thief had invaded the divine vaults and escaped with a sacred treasure. The Golden Jade of Dawn, a relic that radiated the light of the world's first sunrise, had vanished. As always, the prime suspect was Sun Wukong.

And so, Erlang Shen and Nezha now found themselves descending from the clouds to track down the Monkey King, both already exhausted before the search had even begun.

The forest below was dense and ancient, its trees spiraling toward the sky as if trying to touch the gods themselves. Golden mist slithered between the branches, a remnant of the celestial energy that had leaked out with the stolen relic. The sweet scent of peach blossoms drifted through the air, but for Nezha and Erlang, the fragrance was just a reminder of yet another problem caused by the infamous monkey.

"I'd bet my spear that it was that monkey again," Nezha grumbled, arms crossed as he hovered in the air.

"Let's not jump to conclusions," Erlang Shen narrowed his eyes, his divine vision scanning through the thick layers of vegetation. "But yes, it was probably him."

They landed gracefully atop a mountain peak, where, as expected, Sun Wukong lay lounging beneath a cherry blossom tree, its petals falling around him like a pink veil. He was reclined against the trunk, a twig between his teeth, gazing at the horizon with boredom. When he saw the two of them, he raised an eyebrow.

"Ah, what a pleasant surprise. Have you come for a friendly visit, or is this another unfair accusation?"

"You know exactly why we're here!" Nezha pointed a finger at him. "Where is what you stole?"

"Me?" Wukong laughed, placing a hand over his chest in mock offense. "My dear and honorable Nezha, I am a reformed monkey. I don’t steal from Heaven anymore… at least not lately."

Erlang crossed his arms. "Then would you care to explain why traces of celestial qi lead right to this place?"

Wukong blinked. "Huh? That doesn’t make sense."

The three stood in silence. Then, slowly, Wukong turned to look at the adjacent mountaintop, where a dark figure was desperately trying to sneak away unnoticed.

Nezha huffed. "Macaque."

The dark-furred monkey froze. Then, he gave them a nervous smile and waved casually. "Oh. What a coincidence, huh? I was just passing by…"

"You stole from Heaven and made us waste time chasing Wukong instead?" Erlang Shen sighed, rubbing his temples.

"Well, technically…" Macaque scratched the back of his neck. "If you think about it, it’s still kind of Wukong’s fault. I mean, he has a record, so obviously, everyone was going to blame him."

"That doesn’t even make sense!" Wukong protested, pointing at him.

"But it made you come after him and not me. So, in the end, it did make sense." Macaque grinned, clearly proud of himself.

Nezha pointed his spear at him. "Hand it over now before I banish you to another dimension."

Macaque sighed dramatically and pulled the relic from his robes. The Golden Jade of Dawn gleamed between his fingers, radiating a warm, golden light, as if a miniature sun was trapped inside. The golden reflection danced across their faces as Erlang’s eyes narrowed.

Wukong whistled. "Wow. You’ve got good taste, huh? But seriously, Macaque, stealing *this*? The Golden Jade? Do you want the Jade Emperor himself to come down here and crush you?"

Macaque lifted the relic, admiring it against the evening light. "I was going to give it back… after admiring it for a while."

"You would’ve been vaporized before that," Nezha snatched the Jade from his hands. "Idiot."

Macaque sighed. "You guys are no fun."

Erlang rubbed the bridge of his nose, exhausted. "Let’s go. We need to return this before the entire Heavens come crashing down on us."

Macaque just shrugged and grinned at Wukong. "Well, you got off the hook this time."

Wukong chuckled. "Next time, try stealing something more subtle, you idiot."

Macaque winked. "But where’s the fun in that?"

And as Erlang and Nezha ascended back to the heavens with the recovered relic, Macaque and Wukong remained behind, laughing under the golden light of the setting sun—two monkeys who always found fun in trouble, even when one of them *was* the trouble.

⊹₊⟡⋆ @delighteddistractions555 hope you like ദ്ദി ⎚-⎚

#sun wukong #lego macaque #lmk macaque #lmk nezha #erlang shen #lmk erlang #six eared macaque #nezha

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lookingforyn · 7 months ago

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Got a odd one tumbling in my head- Sorry if it sounds too silly! Also I dunno how many characters you accept in a single ask, so in case like all of the THH boys is too much-

Can I ask for Kiyotaka, Mondo, and Makoto with a Ultimate Farmer!SO who is bad at flirting? Like they want to impress their friend/crush, and what's the first thing that comes to mind to gift them?

A self-made and aged cheese wheel worth thousands! They gotta match their adoration in weight, and a cheese wheel is pretty heavy!

OMG I LOVE THIS IDEA SOOOO MUCH YESSS!!!!!

Makoto Naegi, Kiyotaka Ishimaru and Mondo Owada X utimate farmer gifting them a cheese wheel

SFW, headcannon format, fluff, gender neutral reader, killing game setting

━━━━━━━━ ★ ━━━━━━━━

Makoto Naegi

•He likes to hear stories about what farm life is like. It’s impressive to him about how much you know about crops and animals, although that type of life is DEFINITELY not for him.

•So he was a bit confused when you brought up helping you out with roping cattle after expressing his opinion on how a guy like him would probably burn the place down by accident

•”I’d love to see how well you do with my cattle. Uhh I mean with my help, I mean you’d probably be awful so you could just watch me do it. OH MY GOD I DIDN’T MEAN TO SAY IT LIKE THAT JUST FORGET WHAT I SAID!!”

•You just wanted to spend time with him but every time you brought up things to do with him at your farm, everything you could conjure up in your head was met with the worse possible outcome due to Makoto’s lack of skill

•Then one idea stuck with you… a giant cheese wheel

•You knocked on his door early in the morning your eyes had sprinkles of joy in them ready for his reaction to be out of this world. Who didn’t like cheese?…unless he was vegan or vegetarian or worse… lactose intolerant

•You were so nervous your hands started to sweat profusely in anticipation of embarrassment by your own making. Makoto opened the door a soft yawn escaping him as he did so

•”Makot! I uh- I-!!” You suddenly lost control of the wheel it quickly rolling into Makoto the weight of it all pushing him onto the ground. “I’M SO SORRY!! LET ME HELP YOU!” You quickly pushed it out of the way, with all the work you have to do from your talent unlike Makoto you’ve built up quite the strength

•”Wow Y/N what happened?!” He said sitting up from the floor. He then saw thw cheese wheel laying on the ground beside him. “Is that… cheese?” He said standing up to examine the piece of dairy. “I wanted to gift you something you’d enjoy but I got so worked up I wasn’t thinking about if you even ate dairy, sorry about running you over with it I di-“ “It’s huge!!” He shouted thw fragrance making his mouth melt

•”You… like my gift?” You said not sure if his remark was a compliment or an insult. “I love it! Hey can you grab some crackers or whatever you have with this we can eat some together for breakfast!” “Together?…” you said to yourself softly “Yea definitely! I’ll be right back I’ll get some drinks too!” You said in excitement. You were right, who didn’t love cheese?

Mondo Owada

•You worked up a good sweat in the kitchen your arms feeling more jacked then ever since being forced into this “school”

•The aroma of delicious and delicate cheese covering the kitchen head to toe like it always does whenever you make your famous family’s cheese wheel

•It made you feel like home, like in this shitty place a part of the farm came along with you

•While reminiscing of the life you could be living at this very moment, you didn’t even notice that the wheel of cheese started to roll out of the kitchen and into the arms of Mondo Owada

•Your lucky he caught it before it knocked him off his feet. “What the fuck! What is this?” He shouted lifting it up to investigate this circle of death

•”That would be mine!” You said rushing over to him. “You made this whole thing in the fuckin kitchen? Do you have another talent you’re not telling us? What’s next a godamn rocket scientist?” You laughed at his dramatic comment. “No it’s just a recipe I was taught through my family, this baby is a cheese wheel it makes us a lot of money.”

•”Well I don’t think cheese should be this heavy.” He threw it over his shoulder walking over to the kitchen but you stopped him by tugging on the sleeve of his jacket. “I got it but thanks!” You took it off of his shoulder and into your hands hurrying back to the kitchen Mondo following close behind

•”Holy shit.” He said to himself “What?” You carefully placed it onto the ground not wanting another accident to occur. “I didn’t know you could lift all that.” You started to clean up your mess not expecting for this compliment to be thrown your way. “Yea well farm life is not easy there’s a lot of physical labour involved.”

•You blushed luckily your body wasn’t facing Mondo for him to see. “When you’re done, you and me in the gym I’m gonna push you pasts your limit.” You turned and smiled excitingly. “I count on it.”

Kiyotaka Ishimaru

•”You’ve never had a big fresh thing of cheese before?!” You asked him making conversation over breakfast before the rest of the class came for the daily morning meeting. “I’ve never had a big fresh thing of cheese before no. But I have had cheese before in the many varieties such as cheddar, parmigiana, gouda, American, Swiss-“

•As he kept listing cheeses all you could think of his lit up face as you walk in with the biggest wheel of cheese he’s ever seen in his life. You waited for him to finish up while eating the rest of your food “Oh and blue cheese!” He said ending his dairy rant.

•That same day you made sure to spice it up extra for him throwing in the best of the best in there (at least what you could find in the kitchen)

•The time came and your nerves were running high but that also included your anticipation. “You’ll love it Taka!” You said as your hands covered his eyes. “Are you ready?” He nodded energetically

•”3.. 2…. 1!” Your heart sank from what you were seeing. The wheel you’ve spent so much time and effort on had fallen apart crumbs of cheese scattered around the table that you left your then in tacked cheese wheel was placed upon. “Taka I’m so so sorry I, we’ll I tried to make you your first cheese wheel to try and I guess I got distracted and-“

•He grabbed a handful of cheese crumbs and stuffed it into his mouth fast and swiftly. “….WOW!!!” He looked to have stars in his eyes as he grabbed another handful. “THIS IS FANTASTIC I LOVE IT!!” You were taken back by his reaction but you were definitely not disappointed. “Really?” You asked “OF COURSE I WOULD NEVER LIE ABOUT SUCH AN AMAZING TALENT THANK YOU Y/N!!!” He said bowing over and over again to you. “I’ll pour some drinks.” He smiled at you more excitedly than a little kid on Christmas. He has such an amazing smile.

#danganronpa #danganronpa fanfiction #danganronpa headcanons #danganronpa x reader #danganronpa x y/n #requests are open #send requests #damganronpa #danganronpa thh

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ro-written · 2 years ago

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Me Gustas Tu - J.W

Tags/Warnings: Fluff; Nothing really, gn!reader, very little rereading cause that’s my brand now

Word Count: 1.1k

Song Inspo: “Me Gustas Tu” by Manu Chao

Jung Wooyoung likes a lot of things.

He likes the color black. He enjoys the simplicity of it. Appreciates the way he can dress it with anything and can find familiarity within it. It’s a quiet color. The color he comes back to at the end of the day in his bedroom. One that helps calm him and rest his mind after a flashy, long, overwhelming day. It’s the color that surrounds him and allows him to be himself.

He likes seeing you sleep peacefully under his black comforter in his room. When he comes back at the end of the day and you’ve already made a home in his bed. Even in the darkness of the muted color, you brighten the place immediately with your presence. He wouldn’t consider himself a romantic, too realistic and practical in his thoughts to even entertain the idea. But when you give him that tired smile and dig yourself into him when he finally gets under the covers? When you murmur lowly, still half-asleep, about how much you missed him and how warm he feels? Well, he feels like he could write volumes of poetry.

He likes clothes. He adores the way he can express himself through what he wears. Clothes make him feel safe, make him feel like himself. He likes piecing things together that people may not have considered, and end up shocked when they see how well it matches. Clothes make him feel confident. Can completely shift his attitude one way or another. Make or break his entire mood. A good outfit can define his entire day.

He likes seeing you in his clothes. Particularly this one black hoodie he has. It’s oversized, even on him, stretched out from years of use. But goddammit, he just can’t get over how comfortable it is, even after all this time. Can’t bring himself to get rid of it. And seeing you in it? When you leave your fragrance on it for him after having “borrowed” it for a few days? When you send pictures to him, wearing it while he’s away on tour? He thinks it has to be his favorite piece of clothing.

He likes gaming. It’s one of his favorite stress relievers. Being able to come home and hop on a game, not think about anything else besides beating this one goddamn level. Losing himself in the storyline of Assassin's Creed and mindlessly doing quests that he’s done at least five times before. Others may find it repetitive; He can’t begin to count how many times Yunho has given him a funny look for playing the same story again. But he enjoys it all the same.

He likes when you play with him. When you get excited playing FIFA against each other. He pretends to get huffy when you beat him (even though he couldn’t deny the flutter in his heart and the gentle smile playing at his lips while watching you celebrate.) He likes to teach you how to play a new game. He can sit even closer to you and help guide your fingers over the controls. You know exactly what he’s doing, and when you poke at his cheek to call him out, all he has to defend himself is an eye roll, and I just want to make sure it’s an even playing field, love. He didn’t even mind when you simply sat near him to watch him play. He enjoyed your presence, knowing that you simply wanted to just spend time with him. Maybe you were talking to him about the game, or maybe you were talking about your day. Maybe neither of you were talking about anything, the orchestral music of the game filling the air. He didn’t care. He had you.

He likes cooking. It allows him to learn new recipes, and explore different parts of the globe right in his kitchen. He can focus on a recipe, the rest of the world fading away from purview. Similar to his clothes, he likes making the food aesthetically pleasing too. He enjoys the chaos right before the calm of being able to enjoy his creation. He likes how he can mix various items to create a tasteful dish. Being able to say that he created something of his own.

He likes cooking for you. He likes seeing the way your eyes gleam and the wide smile you offer as he sets your favorite food in front of you. And yes, he learned and mastered the perfect recipe for it. His heart pounds in his chest whenever he asks you to try a new dish, awaiting your honest answer. And you do answer honestly, something he appreciates every time.

He likes dancing. It gives him a way to express himself, aside from his clothes. Where words fail, he communicates through movements. He can let his body move on its own accord, responding to the beats and melodies in the songs in its own way. Actions speak louder than words, and when he’s dancing he feels like he can recite his own Shakespearian play to the world.

He likes dancing with you. Being able to put on a record and taking your hand in his, grinning as you bashfully lean into him, allowing him to lead you around the room. He likes to press his face near your ear to hum along to the song, swaying you side to side and gently guiding your feet. He likes hearing you laugh a little at the corniness of it, but melting into his body nonetheless. He even likes dancing for you. When you stay with him at the studio and just watch as he shows you a new routine he’s putting together. And when he finishes he can see the starry look you have in your eyes.

There were times when his feelings felt conflicted. Moments where he had to debate if he actually liked something or if he simply wanted to like it.

One thing was for certain though.

Jung Wooyoung likes you. He likes your patience with him. He likes your smile. He likes the way you make these small faces at something when you were focused on a task. He likes the way you bite at your nail when you get lost in thought. He likes the way your eyebrow quirks when you want to react to something. He likes when you poke his dimples when he smiles at you. He likes that you can effortlessly get him to laugh - really laugh. A laugh that reverberates in his chest. And god, does he like the feeling he gets just being around you. A feeling that warms his whole body, that leaves subtle tingles under his skin.

One thing for certain?

He loves you.

This was written by @/ro-written and is not to be plagiarized, translated, or distributed anywhere else. Copyright Ro-Written 2023.

All comments, reblogs, and likes are always welcome!

Wanna help me keep writing? Consider tipping me on Ko-fi!

#ateez #ateez x reader #ateez fluff #jung wooyoung #jung wooyoung x reader #wooyoung #wooyoung ateez #ateez jung wooyoung #atz wooyoung #ateez wooyoung #wooyoung x reader #wooyoung imagines #wooyoung fluff #jung wooyoung ateez #jung wooyoung fluff

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tarithenurse · 3 months ago

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Inhuman

Fandom: MCU Pairing: Bucky x fem!reader, eventually Loki x fem!reader, Stucky, more (some canon, some not). Word count: 2717. Contents: It's happening!! A/N: Any questions are welcome. Please comment and like and reblog. Let me know if you want a tag.

Chapter 42

... Reader’s PoV ...

The change of seating always appears a bit confusing until people start to help each other. Through the main course, you have the joy of some of Sharon’s family and friends thereof. The only familiar face is May who, surprisingly, has gotten into a long conversation with a middle-aged man, practically saving the rest of the table from hearing about his disasters at golfing for the ninth time.

On and off, there are speeches from a few relatives and of course the groom, bringing most of the women to a state of whimpering joy with tears in their eyes. Our eyes.

The entire table is just recovering from a tale about a thanksgiving-disaster when you notice Bucky approaching. He’s taken off the tuxedo jacket (allowing the waistcoat to emphasize his shape) and rolled up his sleeves even though he’s in a public place. As he leans down to whisper in your ear, his warm fingertips softly touch the exposed skin on your back for a second.

“Mind coming with me for a moment?”

You follow him out of the room and down into the garden where there’s a small gazebo away from the noise. The Indian summer is nearing an end, but the air is still warm as the tattered clouds drift by above on the black sky and the late season’s flowers are holding on, still sending their fragrance into the night.

Leaning against one of the pillars of the low building Bucky begins. “At first, I thought it was going to be a good idea, but now I’m not so sure.”

This is not what I was expecting. “I’m sorry, but you need to be more precise. What are you talking about?” Your voice is not nearly as relaxed as you want it to be, instead the uncertainty and even fear creeping in.

“The seating plans. I know you are responsible for giving Steve the idea.”

Oh. Again, not something you saw coming. “You can hardly blame me for that. I’m practically innocent.”

Throwing his arms wide, his rebuttal comes immediately. “You are the reason I’ve had to sit at the opposite end of the room while you are laughing and dazzling everyone.” The edge to his words is frustration. “You are far from innocent.”

Well if that’s what you think, then that’ll be what you get. In three steps, you’ve pinned him against the cold stone by planting your palms on his shoulders and pressing the right knee past him just at hip height which means the ankle is resting on his thigh. His reaction is to grab hold, cradling your back with the other hand as you’re practically leaning against him, chest to chest, preventing him from saying anything the next half minute or so before you let the lips find the tender spot just under his earlobe instead of his mouth. One kiss.

“Better?” Even if he hadn’t nodded, she’d still know he liked it. “Good, ‘cause that was it for now.”

Detaching yourself with a devious smile, you leave him hanging, mouth still open as you begin to walk away the direction you came from before he comes crashing back to the real world. He has to run to catch up with you.

”So that’s the game then?”

Sometimes it’d be nice to have Wanda’s ability…but he’s laughing quietly, inflamed with a stubborn arousal.

You manage to get back to the party with just one little incident involving an ass and a hand.

It’s a game of cat and mouse through the rest of the dinner with the roles constantly being switched until it’s impossible to tell who is who and which is which.

…

The tables have been repositioned to make room for dancing near the newly erected DJ-panel where a very serious-looking young man is getting set up, headset already around the neck even if it isn’t plugged in yet, but at the moment people are paying more attention to the bar and the free seating than any potential dancing. It’s fun to choose Bucky’s path around the room as they mingle, following the conversation partners first one way and then other, sometimes drifting by close enough to send a smirk in his direction.

The howling of a microphone getting switched on silences the room more efficiently than any teacher could ever have hoped for, and everyone turns to face the DJ as he announces the bride and groom’s first dance to the tones of ‘I get a kick out of you’.

It almost looks like they have attended Natasha’s dance school. Steve leads his wife around the floor, spinning and dipping her gently, a big smile curling his lips each time they lock eyes, until the last notes vibrate out of existence and they stop to a thunderous applause and shouts cajoling them to kiss. And that’s it. The dance floor is declared open and many people make use of it right away while you, on the other hand, escape to the bar.

“[Y/N], pardon me.” Beside you, Vision is looking puzzled. “I would like to ask you something that may perhaps seem trivial to you.”

“Yeah?” Funny how he always sounds British.

“Is one required to dance as a guest at a wedding?”

“I don’t think so.”

The dawning relief shows in his face. “In that case, I shall excuse myself from this part of the events.” And with these words he wanders off back towards Wanda.

Staring after him, you see him offer her an arm and escort her away from the noisy crowd, eventually disappearing out of sight. You yourself get comfortable, leaning on the counter as you watch the bartender turn mixology into an artform.

You’re approached once more. “Sir.”

“Not tonight. Tonight we use first names, that’s an order.” Coulson is having a good time, enjoying life away from the responsibilities to the full extend. “I was wondering if you’ve seen Wanda? I wanted to ask her to dance.”

“I’m afraid you just missed her.”

“Ah, I expected that would happen. Oh well.” Pouting for only a moment, he shakes the disappointment off and orders a Hakushu (which turns out to be a whiskey). “See I’m working on this thing….like a bucket list…but I prefer to call it a Tahiti list.”

“Tahiti?” Maybe he’s more drunk than I can tell.

“Yes, it’s a magical place.” Gratefully accepting the glass, he savours the scent of the liquor which even at a distance makes your nostrils burn. “So…on my list is to get a dance with all the superheroes.”

“I don’t think you’ll ever convince Wanda, but I’m sure Tony is up for anything.”

Out on the dance floor the philanthropist is teaching a couple of kids some basic disco moves. They both look at him before deciding it’s better to avoid witnessing the rest of ‘picking apples’ out of sync with the music. Normally he got moves, but the kids are grinning at his inadequacy.

“Maybe I’ll just stick to asking the ladies.”

…

Despite the DJ working hard to get people on the dance floor, it’s still possible to carry a conversation without having to shout. There is an unspoken rule among any SHIELD and Avengers people that they don’t talk work tonight which, even though it’s a bit strange because that’s normally all they do, is a great change.

Obviously, a great deal of attention is directed at the events of this day, and there are a lot of differences between various wedding traditions that leave people wondering how the other part can have ended up doing it in their particular way. You’re trying to explain the concept of the wedding waltz when the music changes to the loud delight of almost everyone, causing them to run up and form neat rows. Coulson is about to join the ranks when he notices that you’re staring at the scene that’s unfolding.

“It’s the Cha Cha Slide! Don’t you know that?” Incredulity has frozen him in place as the lack of your education becomes apparent. Grabbing your hand, he pulls you along. “The instructions are the lyrics, so just do as they say.”

He mumbles something else but you can’t make it out and soon you’re too distracted by the synchronized dance moves, doing your best to keep up.

Just when you think it’s over and you can escape, a new song starts playing and you find yourself facing the director once more, his hand stretched towards her as an invitation to dance properly this time.

“Alright, but be warned…”

Coulson knows how to dance and more importantly he knows how to lead someone that doesn’t have the same talents as him. Carefully, counting under his breath, he leads you across the wooden floor that is covering this end of the room. One, two, three and out beside him, two, two, three and little twist. With gentle nudges and tugs he leads you through a swaying mix between waltz and cha cha, sometimes sending you off on a twirling detour before somehow assuring the return with a hand cradling the shoulder blade. With each bold move you accomplish, he beams proud like a father, encouraging and complimenting, causing your confidence to inflate tenfold in the span of the few minutes the song lasts until, with a flourish, he bows as a new beat drowns the echo of the tune you followed.

“You’ve been practising.” He’s slightly out of breath.

“Yes and thank goodness for that. Thank you for the dance.” His skills deserve more recognition than they get.

“Thank you. Besides, that’s one off the list.” The sly wink is not new, but for once you’re in on the joke. Tahiti…it’s a magical place. Together, you get back to the bar for refreshments before he is off to find the next target.

…

It’s impossible to sit alone for more than a few seconds at a time and soon you’re a little group of women, with Sharon in the middle, chatting and laughing while they enjoy an amazing evening without worries of any sort.

The grandmother is impressing everyone the most because she has left her walking cane and is getting her hands on every single man that gets within range of her surprisingly long reach…and they are all too polite to deny her the favour of a dance. By the time it’s done she leaves them staggering off to safety. According to Sharon, she is a friend of the family and nearing 90 years of age but still sharp as a razor.

The room is getting warm and stuffy even with a well-functioning air-conditioning system and eventually you need a bit of air.

Out in the quiet of the hall, you find a little settee where you can close the eyes and try to empty the head of all the impressions. The peace is brief, but does wonders and it’s with renewed vigour that you rejoin the party.

Passing through the door, it’s not unexpected that you stand face to face with your suitor, who, without a word, takes your hand and leads you towards the music and the crowded area there. Just before you set foot on the hard surface, Natasha grabs away the little purse, as if it’s part of a plan, freeing your hands for whatever sort of mess you’ll end up in.

Letting the rhythm decide the pace, you stride ahead until your arm is stretched behind you, connecting you to Bucky who has planted himself solidly and is beckoning you to return and assume the position Natasha has taught, the width of a hand being the only distance between you, holding your breaths for a second before he starts to move.

Matching each step, sometimes by shadowing and other times by mirroring, you circle around each other in continuously changing proximity. Your favourite move is when he leans you outwards, arms stretched and your knee interlocked with one of his (though his foot is anchored onto the ground), yet when Bucky pulls you back, you end up completely wrapped in his and your arms, so close to him that you can feel his heartbeat against your own back while you return to a simple, swaying stride.

Look, Nat, I’m using my hips like you told me. His breath is warm on the neck as he lightly touches his lips against the skin there before spinning you back into freedom, facing him until the next time you’re send off on a detour. Looking back over the shoulder, you see him standing tall and straight like a pillar, an invisible chain linking you and keeping you from drifting too far apart. Cross stepping arm in arm so close your noses and toes touch, it’s only because you close the eyes that you don’t get lost in his.

Not a word is spoken between them, but there is no doubt what his intentions are and any hesitation you’ve experienced before when being led on a dance floor are gone, evaporated together with the crowd. Right now, the entire world is him and the music…and then all of a sudden, it’s over: leaning so far back, that you can see the room upside down, you hear the music fade away. Holding you safe are Bucky’s arms as he’s leaning in over you. Short, hard breaths are fluttering across your collar bones and trying to find a way down the cleavage. Fighting gravity, he pulls you back up slowly and your hands find his neck and shoulders of their own accord, trying to get even closer to him. He only allows one short kiss, though.

“They are applauding.” He looks ashamed as he relinquishes the hold.

You can’t see what the cause of the commotion is as you look around. It’s just the people closest by.

“Why? What did we miss?”

“Sometimes you’re not that bright, are you?” Laughing quietly as a keen heat spreads across your face, he takes your hand and leads you off the dance floor. “You’re quite the hoofer.”

You would have objected but Natasha appears from the sideline, handing the purse and commenting on the little show. One word takes the other and more people join your little ensemble as you find a place to sit. Soon you’re surrounded by colleagues and friends, but this time Bucky isn’t letting anyone get between them.

…

“Ladies and gentlemen.” The DJ’s booming voice shuts down any conversation. “I’m afraid we’ve come to the time of the night where the last song will start playing. It’s been great to see so many people dancing and I hope you’ll grab the chance for one last moment.”

A vibrating voice starts of ever so gently and you immediately recognize the beautiful acapella that beckons every couple to find the one they cherish. In slow circles Sharon and Steve almost float at the centre of it all as the rest surround them, tracing their own little circles.

Perhaps you’re supposed to be paying more attention to the bride and groom, but the soothing hallelujahs work as a lullaby bringing peace to the safety of Bucky’s arms where you’re nestled with the forehead hidden under his shielding chin. Lord knows that man has a jawline that could withstand anything.

The calm doesn’t last forever. As soon as the song ends all the women bunch up behind Sharon as she retrieves her bouquet. With her back to them she sends it flying in a graceful arch and you witness the strangest of all the American wedding traditions: the prophecy of the flower. Whomsoever can lift this bouquet shall henceforth find the love of her life ad they shall live happily ever after.

It never made sense to you and you’re not shy of explaining that to the grandmother when she asks why you didn’t try to go for it like all the other. Cackling, almost crying with laughter, she nudges Bucky as she follows the couple who have decided to call it a night. Not only do they leave the party, they get out in a car and drive off, leaving the rest to say goodnight and farewell.

It’s almost three o’clock before Buck and you have found the bed and it’s quite a while longer before they finally get to sleep.

#fanfiction #reader insert #avengers #mcu #Inhuman #x reader #marvel #marvel cinematic universe #fanfic #writing #bucky barnes x fem!reader #bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #x fem!reader

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thelaborganics · 13 days ago

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Inside the NoTox Skincare: Natural Techniques for Radiant Skin

In this fast paced world many people are turning to NoTox skincare to keep their skin healthy and glowing — without harsh chemicals or expensive treatments. But what is NoTox skincare? NoTox skincare is all about using natural skincare techniques instead of chemical based products or cosmetic procedures. Clean or fresh beauty consists of gentle ingredients and healthy habits all support the skin's well-being from the inside out. Here we are on how one can achieve glowing smooth skin and look younger with simple, safe, and chemical-free skincare.

What Is NoTox Skincare?

"NoTox" comes from the phrase "no toxins." This is a kind of skincare that avoids harsh ingredients like parabens, sulfates, and synthetic fragrances. They contain non-toxic beauty products having natural materials like plant extracts and essential oils. Many Australians are now opting for this approach because it’s gentle, safe and better for long term skin health. NoTox skincare is also kind to the planet so it’s a win win for you and the earth.

Why People Love NoTox Skincare

Here’s why NoTox skincare is growing popular, especially in places like Melbourne and Sydney:

It’s natural: No harmful chemicals on your skin.

It’s simple: Fewer products, easy routines.

Suitable for all skin types: even sensitive skin.

Holistic beauty routines: focus on your overall wellbeing not just the outside.

NoTox skincare is more than a trend–it’s a lifestyle choice for people who care about what they put on their bodies.

5 Natural Ways to Glow

You don’t need fancy tools or expensive treatments to follow a NoTox skincare routine.

Here are 5 easy, natural steps you can start today:

1. Cleanse with Natural Oils.

Follow up with gentle cleansers with the likes of jojoba oil, aloe vera or chamomile that remove dirt while maintaining the complexion's moisture.

2. Moisturise with Plant-Based Moisturisers

Look for moisturisers with shea butter, rosehip oil, or coconut oil. These ingredients help keep your skin soft and smooth — the natural skin glow you’ve been looking for!

3. Use Natural Face Masks

One or two times in a week, use a clay, honey, or oatmeal safe-for-your-skin DIY or regularly purchased mask to clean out your pores and give your face a brighten-up.

4. Eat For Healthy Skin

Good skin is a when-it-comes-to-food scenario. Drink enough water and go for foods packed with vitamins- berries, leafy greens, and nuts. It is one of the pillars of healthy living.

5. Natural Skin Protection

Choose mineral sunscreens over chemical ones. And don’t forget your hat!

Lab Organics: Your Partner in NoTox Skincare

At Lab Organics, we believe in clean, conscious beauty. Our products are hand-picked to take you through your NoTox skincare adventure-from organic facial oils, through gentle cleansers, to moisturizers-every item being non-toxic and cruelty free, prepared with love.

Whether this is your first time in clean beauty or you've had natural solutions involved in your routine for some time, we have the right product for everyone.

The Final Thought

If you're tired of all the harsh ingredients and extra long routines, it might just be the perfect time to try NoTox skincare. It is a gentle skin care approach safe for healthy skin: really in tune with the clean beauty trend in Australia right now.

Look for the small changes: just switch one product at a time. Maybe drink more water. Get better sleep. And trust in nature to bring out your natural glow.

Ready to try NoTox skincare?Explore our hand-picked range of clean and organic products at Lab Organics — where beauty meets nature.

#NoTox Skincare #natural skincare techniques #chemical-free skincare #holistic beauty routine #clean beauty Australia #non-toxic beauty #natural skin glow tips

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whalefalllibrary · 2 months ago

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Banquet Ablaze

M: Phew, Now it actually looks livable.

With the dust and clutter swept out, fresh air drifts into the tiny apartment at last.

After another round of scrubbing the floor, I plop down to rest. My gaze lands on the paint-covered ceiling and walls.

M: (Rafayel said he lived here before. Did he create these paintings himself?)

Although the paint has peeled and faded with age, I can still make out the bold colors and untamed brushstrokes.

M: (They’re kind of similar to Rafayel’s style, but there’s something differebt about them…)

R: Whatcha looking at?

M: I’m just admiring the art.

A familiar face appears in my line of sight. I grab his sleeve, point to the walls, and share my thoughts.

R: Ah, I see. You know, your artistic intuition is sharper than 99.8% of the world’s population by now, Master MC.

M: When you hang out with a talented artist all day, it’s hard not to pick up a thing or two.

R: So, what else have you noticed? Tell me.

I frame a section of the ceiling with my fingers. Rafayel lies down beside me so we can look at it together.

M: Right here. It’s sort of like a black cactus? But if you look closely, there’s orange and bright pink underneath.

M: Why would the artist cover up these warm, vivid colors?

R: Weeell, it’s because…

He leans closer until our foreheads touch. His voice is like a warm mist near my ear.

R: Colors that are bright like the sun… Sure, they’re beautiful and passionate… But they can burn anyone who comes too close.

R: Like a kite with no string, the viewer will be caught in the scorching heat until they’re nothing but ash.

M: What are you trying to say?

Rafayel doesn’t answer me. He sits up and pulls me along with him.

R: Beak time’s over.

R: Let’s power through this and finish unpacking. Then I’ll take you to the best seafood place in town.

As I stand, I notice a messy stack of sketches that wasn’t there before. They’re right next to our suitcases.

R: I just pulled these out from a cabinet in the bedroom.

Seeing my confusion, Rafayel slips the yellowed, delicate pages into a bag as he speaks.

R: I thought I already collected all of his sketches, but it looks like he stashed some away.

M: (”His” sketches?)

M: So those and the paintings on the walls aren’t yours?

R: Yep, they’re definately not mine.

R: Back then, I couldn’t bring myself to paint for a while.

R: These works and this apartment belong to…

R: Someone who was basically my art teacher.

M: You’ve never mentioned him before.

R: He’s been missing for years.

M: Missing?

R: That’s what the news said.

M: But in reality, he’s…?

R: In reality, I just let myself believe he was missing.

After carefully placing the sketches into a seperate box, Rafayel returns to unpacking our suitcases.

R: He liked the world above the waaves. Many years ago, he left Lemuria to paint landscapes he had never seen before.

R: Maybe he really did find his own utopia. And it was so enchanting that he forgot to come back.

M: …

There’s no sadness on his face. I’m not sure if I should ask any more questions. But then he closes the suitcase.

R: All right. Actually, wait…

R: I almost forgot this.

Rafayel puts a fancy-looking wine box on a prominent spot. It’s the gift for the winery owner at tomorrow’s banquet.

Despite the bottle being tightly wrapped, the wine’s rich, mellow aroma quickly permeates the room.

M: It’s called Dionysus. Named after the God of Wine himself. It must taste amazing.

R: Sadly, it’s too strong for tonight’s dinner.

Rafayel grabs my coat in one hand and turns me around with the other.

R: Let’s get going. We’ll pick out something more suitable once we’re at the restaurant.

After dinner, Rafayel and I walk back with a bottle of wine. It’s a gift from the restaurant owner.

Every now and then, we hear the clink of glasses and cheerful chatter from the shops. It mingles with the strong fragrance of wine in the evening air.

M: I didn’t expect the restaurant owner to actually know you.

M: And they see as “Lil Raf”, not “Rafayel who’s a famous artist”.

R: In my defense, I wasn’t exactly a kid at the time.

R: Buuut I guess if we’re gonna use your human standards… I was technically underage.

Maybe it’s because of the wine that his voice is soft and languid. It’s just like the moonlight above.

After some thought, I decided to ask the questions I couldn’t bring myself to voice at the apartment.

M: So… Why did you live here at that time?

R: …I’m too drunk to remember.

interaction: pat his head

Rafayel covers his eyes and shakes his head, but his steps remain perfectly steady. I pat his cheek, which doesn’t feel warm at all.

M: Liar.

M: Let me ask another question. Were you… Unhappy when you lived here?

I recall him saying he couln’t bring himself to paint at the time.

R: I barely went out back then.

He plucks an unknown flower from the vines of a nearby wall.

R: The old butler who accompanied me was worried. He thought I might run into trouble. Sooo, he asked me to stay inside.

R: But my teacher was either painting or drinking. He spent twelve hours a day doing one thing, and the rest of the day was spent doing the other.

R: Sometimes he’d bring me to the bars. We’d go from the eastern coast to the western coast. My job was to drag him home once he passed out.

M: Wow. You were a caring, underage fishie.

R: Yuuup. While he drank, I just stood outside and watched the world go by one coast at a time.

M: Was it beautiful?

Rafayel responds with a slight smile, tucks the flower into my jacket’s pocket, and takes my hand.

R: Do you wanna see it for yourself?

----------------------------------------

Following the path through rows of grape arbors, we arive at a secluded coast.

R: Give me your hand. One… two… three.

interaction: take his hand

M: Up we go!

With Rafayel’s help I scramble up a steep slope, and the entire coast unfolds before my eyes.

Under the moonlight, the sea gleams with a silvery sheen reminiscent of sparkling diaonds.

The cliffs are covered in lush foliage and flowering vines. White sea spray soars as the waves roll onto the shore to create an almost rhythmic murmur.

M: This is gorgeous… No wonder there are so many bars here.

M: I would’t mind drinking when there’s a view like this.

R: When in Rome, doas the Romans do. You’ve only been here for a day, but you already fit right in.

Rafayel finds a spot to sit and pats the ground beside him. He gives me the small bottle of wine.

interaction: tap

R: The scenery used to be more beautiful than this.

R: The sea was a vivid greenish blue, the meadows were full of daisies, and seagulls would circle those red cliffs.

R: I’d sit here and watch the sun dip below the horizon. Then the moon started its shift.

M: It’s still stunning. Somehow it feels… soothing, like the ocean is washing my worries away.

I sip the wine, and realize something.

Dialogue choice: Maybe your teacher did that on purpose?

M: Maybe your teacher dragged you outside on purpose.

M: You were depressed. He might’ve been trying to cheer you up.

R: …I doubt it. Art and booze were all that mattered to him. He wasn’t the type to have hidden goals.

R: But if he ever makes it back from that “utopia”, I’ll ask him.

He grips the bottle but doesn’t drink. He just quietly looks at the sea.

I’m not sure if I should pry further, so I look around to find something that could lighten the mood.

M: You said something about red cliffs. Where are they? I can’t see them.

R: It’s so dark right now.

R: Besides, the winery’s in the way.

He points to a manor-like building in the distance.

Hoenlos Winery. We’re going there tomorrow night.

M: Oh, so that’s its name.

R: You didn’t bother to read the invitation and just followed me here. Aren’t you afraid I’ll sell you off?

M: You’re the one who said this was no big deal. But you came all the way here.

R: That’s not what I said, cutie.

R: I said the owner isn’t exactly a friend of mine. But he’s important.

R: I’ve waited a long time for this invitation.

M: (What does that mean…?)

Dialogue choice: Do you have plans tomorrow?

M: It’s rare to see you so eager to socialize… Do you have plans for tomorrow?

R: What do you mean by “plans”?

M: …I’m not sure.

Dialogue choice 1: Do you have anything planned?

R: Relax. My only plan tomorrow consists of giving him that bottle of wine.

I nod a few seconds later. I’m unable to shake off this odd feeling.

Rafayel rests his head on my shoulder, takes a tiny sip, and gives the bottle back to me.

R: The breeze is perfect tonight… Let’s stay here for a while longer.

R: Drink as much as you want. We’ll sleep it off later.

R: We’ll rest until tomorrow… when the banquet begins.

--------------------------------------------------------------

The next evening, we arrive at the newly built Hoenlos Winery. We’re on schedule.

Music drifts through the lavish ballroom that’s filled with guests. As soon as Rafayel appears, a man hurries over to greet him.

??: Mr. Rafayel, welcome! I’m honored you decided to travel all the way here.

R: I wouldn’t miss the grand opening of your winery, Mr. Alden.

They shake hands before Rafayel links his arm with mine.

R: This is Mr. Alden. And this my companion, MC.

M: It’s a pleasure to meet you.

After a few polite words, Rafayel presents the wine. Alden’s face changes from surprise to sheer delight.

Alden: This… is the Dionysus?

R: It’s a small gift, nothing more.

Guest A: Dionysus? Aren’t there only five bottles of it in the world?

A sharp-eyed guest notices the label and gasps.

Guest A: My goodness, Mr. Alden. You’re very fortunate. Having enough money can’t always guarantee you’ll get it.

Guest A: I heard it fetched an enormous sum at an auction. Mr. Rafayel, were you the mysterious bidder?

R: It was more of a lucky find.

R: I’m not a connoisseur, though. It’d be wasted on me, so I thought it should go to someone who truly appreciates it such as Mr. Alden.

R: If it can bring joy to everyone for a grand occasion, then that’s even better.

Alden: This is… You’re too kind, Mr. Rafayel.

Alden thanks him profusely and summons the sommelier to take the wine away.

Rafayel maintains his courteous smile as e exchanges a few more words with Alden. Then he turns his attention to me.

R: Why are you staring at me?

Rafayel picks up a bite-sized pastry and holds it up to my mouth.

M: It’s just… I haven’t seen you in a crowd like this in ages. It’s a little odd?

M: How did you meet Mr. Alden anyway?

R: Aside from being in the wine bussiness, he likes collecting art. He visited a few of my exhibitions overseas.

R: He even attended that lecture I gave on Lemuria’s art in Linkon.

As we talk, we move to the other side of the hall.

Glass display cases are thoughtfully arranged throughout the area. Each showcases items from Mr. Alden’s personal art collection.

M. If that’s it, then why did you give him something so valuable? You also said he was important…

I ask the question that’s been nagging me since yesterday.

R: As I’ve said before, a wine should be with someone who suits it.

R: That’s how it can fulfill it’s real purpose.

He suddenly stops in his tracks, and his gaze is fixed on the wall behind me. I turn to see an oil painting.

It shows a shimmering sea. Each wave’s crest glimmers with highlights

M: Those are…

R: …Scales.

M: ?!

My eyes widen as I move closer to it. The color and gleam of those scales stand out.

M: (Why does this look so familiar… Could it be…?)

R: Okay, you’ve looked enough for today.

A hand covers my eyes, but it’s too late.

I remember now. Those beautiful scales… I saw them on Rafayel before.

A horrifiying thought surfaces in my mind. I open my mouth, but no words come out.

M: …

M: You knew… that your art teacher never made it to any “utopia”.

R: …Yes.

The brilliant light in the hall hurts my eyes. Rafayel remains calm, however.

R: He was lured into a deadly trap by the two things he loved the most.

R: Then, he was burned to ashes.

M: Rafayel…

All the puzzle pieces click into place: why Rafayel came here, why Alden matters so much, and…

M: That wine… It isn’t just a gift, right?

R: Wherever Dionysus goes, madness and death follow.

R: He tempts mortals with the world’s most sublime wine. They’ll sink into its sweetness before resting in blissful oblivion.

Applause fill the hall. Alden walks onto the stage under everyone’s gaze and begins his speech.

R: No gift would be more fitting than that bottle of wine.

I’m not sure if he’s referring to Alden or his teacher.

M: …It’s the perfect gift.

M: Those who were wronged will find peace, and the greedy will be judged.

interaction: tap (his hand)

M: And you… I hope this helps you move on.

R: …

Alden: I’d like to give special thanks to Mr. Rafayel. He has gifted us a remarkable wine for this celebration!

The spotlight suddenly move as Alden raises his glass to Rafayel. The bottle of Dionysus sits on the table beside him.

Alden: Let’s make a toast, everyone.

The guests raise their glasses. Rafayel follows suit, but he doesn’t turn toward the stage.

He lowers his gaze to the golden liquid. It’s as though he sees a memory within it.

R: Cheers!

He clinks his glass against an invisible one. I hear him murmur something in Lemurian.

R: … (tentative: “akhamenova”)

M: What did you say?

R: I said…

R: Bon voyage.

After Alden’s speech, Rafayel tells me to wait here. He disappears into the crowd before I can say a word.

Time passes, but he still hasn’t returned. And just as I’m about to go look for him—

R. Sorry to keep you waiting.

M: Rafayel, did… something happen?

R: There are too many people for anything to “happen”.

He takes my half-empty glass and chugs it in one go.

M: Are you sure you’re okay?

R: Of course.

interaction: tap (his hand)

M: I don’t like this place. Can we go home?

R: …No.

Rafayel looks out the window. Muffled thunder rumbles behind the clouds, and lightning flashes.

R: I wanna go to the beach.

-------------------------------

Dark clouds loom overhead. Waves roll in, and the water rises past our ankles.

Rafayel pulls out a tiny vial from his pocket. Something inside it shimmers faintly.

M: Scales…

He must’ve gone back for them when he told me to wait.

R: Do you remember what I said, cutie? Life that’s born in the sea ultimately returns to it. We find a different kind of eternity in the ocean’s depths.

A gentle flame envelops the vial as Rafayel kneels and puts it in the water.

The wave carries it away until the tiny ember vanishes at the point where the sea meets the sky.

R: A long time ago, he was the one who helped me leave this place.

M: Are you talking about your teacher?

R: Yeah. He kept just enough money for one final drink.

R: He used the rest to buy two new identities for me and the old butler… And the tickets that’d let us leave.

He looks at the winery in the distance. Silhouettes dance across the windows like scenes from an eerie play.

R: Now, I’ve finally returned the favor. I gave him a proper goodbye.

M: …You did.

R: Do you want to dance?

interaction: tap (his hand)

M: Sure.

Before we know it, it’s pouring.

But we keep dancing. Our clothes are soaked. The waves rise and wash over our legs.

R: The world is full of things that can swallow you whole if you let them.

R: …I need to find an anchor. One of us falters—I’m not sure who—and we lose our balance. We fall into the ocean.

Countless waves engulf me until a warm touch lifts me out of the cold water.

R: …

His hands touch my waist, and he pulls me up just before I sink.

Rafayel rests his head on my shoulder. We cling to each other, our bodies rising and falling with the currents of the dark waters.

R: So, you should tightly hold onto me.

--------------------------------------------

Half a Month Later.

News Reporter: Alden, the owner of Hoenlos Winery, was discovered in a barrel of his own wine this morning. He drowned.

News Reporter: There were no signs of foul play at the crime scene, and the police have initially ruled it as a suicide…

Gentle daylight filters through the curtains and spills across my open book. A blue ocean under the sun spans the page.

M: Change the channel.

R: I thought you weren’t watching it.

On Rafayel’s lap, I respond.

M: I was listening.

R: You’re so bossy…

Soothing music fills the room. Engrossed in our own quiet tasks, we lean against each other.

The stormy night and everything that happened at the winery gradually fade from our minds. It’s like clouds giving way to clear skies.

After a while, he speaks.

R: Are you afraid? Of who I am, I mean.

M: …Is that why you brought me to the winery? You wanted to see my reaction?

R: I won’t deny that was part of the reason.

M: Come closer. I’ll tell you.

As he lowers himself, I wrap my arms around his neck and plant a chaste kiss on the corner of his lips.

R: …

When we pull away, I notice an unusual gleam in his eyes.

M: Does this answer your question?

(He nods)

#love and deepspace #Rafayel #transcription

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365runesoftheamalgamations · 8 months ago

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A Challenge for Writemas [ 04 ]

hello and how are you, fellow Wanderers?

Thank you to the lovely @agirlandherquill for tagging us in this event and allowing us to join in! We had a little fun with this one, and just let ourselves write it out without too much worry! Hope you enjoy it!

Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

Prompts of the Day:

Dialogue Prompts: "Do not fear me. Fear yourself." | "You've never looked at me like that before." | “One more word… See what happens."

Setting Prompts: A tower | A boat | An island

Feeling Prompts: Aching | The chill of raindrops | The sweetness of a song

Narration Prompts: The knife trembled in their hand. The wind was her only friend, and the only thing to catch her as she fell. He could not stay still, if he did, his mind would shatter.

Once Upon a Time; The Hunter, The Hunt, The Hunted.

The beat of the drum is the only thing that is keeping you moving.

You slam yourself through the snow, through the silence and static that comes with the quiet white expanse that is your new prison. There is nothing around but the swaying Trees, the shifting ice, the stretching darkness. They give you nothing to hide yourself within, nothing to run yourself to, nothing to push yourself towards. It is only you, the World, and the haunting drum of the beat of the Hunt.

You choke on a noise as you run, forcing yourself forward as the music seems to lift louder, carried by the Trees with a sickly sweetness of a song that you can almost recognize. It is something that might be given over to lights and warmth and fragrance and joy. It falls against your ears, bleeding both familiarity and haunting dissonance into your head. You know the song that is coming for you, know the tempo that is devouring the distance between you and the Nightmare.

The song grows and with it, that ungodly noise of the horn that you know if on the lips of the Monster.

You run faster, throw yourself through the snow and against the Trees, hands digging into wood and stone and snow as you claw your way into more distance. There is not a single marker to where you would want to go, where you want to escape, but you move forward, know that you cannot stay still.

If you did, your mind will shatter, and that thought drags you on.

The voice returns, something in your desperation tilting it higher as it adds its own terror to your delusions.

“Do not fear me. Fear Yourself.”

You have to wonder what you look like, clawing your Existence through the very air of the Forests, clinging to anything that would pull you further from the Beast and Being that is hunting you down. You wonder how you must seem, tearing through the World itself, trying to find something that you are starting to think never thought to exist for you in the first place. The voice hits your ears, a scream against the hysteria already sitting in your skull.

“You’ve never looked at me like that before.”

There is something in that thought, something in the way the entire World seems to snap out of and into focus with it. You cannot think about, cannot linger on the moment, know that if you stutter now, the only thing waiting for you being the rattling bag of bones you trick yourself into hearing, far too loud and far too close for anything but your horror.

The Hunter is closing in; you almost lose yourself to stupidity and give your voice to the Silent Night as the thought claws out your reason.

You run yourself out of the Forest, hit something like a lake, though this one is far too wide to see the other side. The only thing before you is blue ice and empty air. You scramble to a stop right before you hit the banks, mind trying to find something that would help you before you note the boat. It is stuck in the ice, half devoured by the frozen Monster clinging to the Lands. You stare at it, spins around so you can watch the tree lines of the Forests, step back until you can feel the ache of the ice under your feet.

You swallow, stand perfectly still, wait out the drum of the beat that teases the only that would send you into the ice.

It is nothing but a dull ache of a drum lost to the wind, and you stand comepletely still, the only thing vibrating in the air being the shake of your body, fear and frost keeping it shifting against your will. You bite down hard, lock your jaw, strain your ears to listen to the beat of the music that seems to be hunting you, just like the Monster it announces.

The drums shift further, the notes slowly beginning to fade. You risk a breath, allow your lungs the burn of the cold as you glance away from the Trees. You try to find a path to follow, glance over your shoulder to check the ice again before it hits you.

The fast pace of hooves slamming into the snow.

You turn around just in time to find the Beast already slamming into you, antlers hitting you squarely in the chest and sending you flying. Swinging bodies slam into you as well, frozen solid and exploding agony though your limbs before you are given over to the Skies for a moment.

The air carries you too far, your mind entangling the blue ice with the grey clouds, and you find yourself in open space, nothing solid around you until your back break against the cold and solid Existence of ice.

You lose everything for a moment, mind and body breaking into static before you note movement. Your own body, sliding hard against the ice, eyes blurry and unfocused and seeing nothing but frozen torture all around you. You hit something harder than ice, note that there is actual ground underneath you. An island, in the sea of ice, more of a detriment than a blessing as your body screams with the sound of the hooves filling your ears again. You scramble, ignore the scream of your body, the haze of your mind, throw yourself forward as you hope for more ice to move you forward and away from the Beast coming for you.

You do not look, do not realize until too late that it is not ice that is waiting on the other side of the island.

The wind greets you, your only friend, and it is the only thing to you catch as you fall over the side of the ice and into the open air.

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kazucee · 3 months ago

Text

WRITING THIS DOWN ON MY NOTES.

REN. REN. REN. LET ME JUST SAY YOU ABSOLUTELY COOKED WITH THIS FIC. Here is my commentary on every part of it Mwheheheheh. You can see how it gets from me commenting rens beautiful writing to me just going absolutely feral with every banger line.

Re: ACT I.

First of all. Reader is so true to life, the awkwardness? The clumsiness? Idk there really is something about the way you write the reader that makes her so animated and so relatable 😭 I love how she tries to get close and how mydeimos just lets her because he couldn't be bothered enough to care.

MYDEI. HOW YOU WRITE HIM MAKES ME WANNA GIGGLE AND PUNCH THE WALL. WHEN HE CAUGHT YOU BEFORE FALLING, FAVOURITE CLICHES OF ALL TIME AND IT STILL MADE MY HEART RACE. he's so silly, this emotionally constipated man will be the end of me istg.

—

lots of pretty scenery descriptions in the gardens part, Ren can I just say that your writing is akin to watching a storybook come to life right infront of me? The words twisting and contorting to an entire world as I read,.

—so, with a woven basket tucked under your arm, you wander through the palace gardens first, where roses and marigolds flourish in a riot of color, their petals unfurling like delicate silk under the afternoon sun. honeysuckle vines twist gracefully around the trellises, their sweet fragrance lingering in the warm afternoon air.

> God I love this description. Pls let me make a home out of these words.

“you don’t need to do anything reckless just to get my attention," he murmurs at last, his voice softer now, no longer edged with frustration. then, almost hesitantly, he adds, "...if you want something, just come to me."

> FORK ME. FORK ME BRO. I CAN IMAGINE IT NOW. IM CRYING. HO. NOW KISS. I CAUGHT YOU FAKE IDGAF-ER. HE'S SO STUPID I HATE THIS (live reaction)

and just like that, your husband walks ahead, idly twirling one of the flowers between his fingers. hardened steel and soft petals, strength and fragility; it doesn't look out of place.

> Chat is this a reference to the first part? The one about how pink suits him so well as well? The one about how softness suits him? The one about how //you// suit him? If this was a reference to that part. It's golden. Loved this. I love it when parts of the fic relate and reference each other and mesh into a cohesive whole.

Re: ACT II.

mydeimos meets his opponent’s strike head-on; phainon, captain of the royal knights, his equal in skill if not in strength, matches him blow for blow. the force of the impact ripples through his arm, but he does not waver. instead, he swiftly pivots, forcing mydeimos onto the defensive.

> PHAINON MENTIONED. (sorry just had to add this. ROYAL KNIGHTS PHAINON MY BELOVED)

“you land one lucky hit and suddenly you’re talking like you’ve dethroned me.” mydei scoffs, already turning toward the weapons rack. phainon watches him go, shaking his head to himself before following suit.

> LOVED HOW YOU WROTE THE TWO'S RELATIONSHIP HERE. MY FAVORITE DUO IN THE HISTORY OF DUOS. The bantering> the action scenes> sighhhs dreamily. I love cocky Phainon sm this stoopid blue eyed bug *grips him and shakes*

for a wound that’s already gone, he finds it strange —how reluctant he is to let it fade.

> Uhm. This entire scene> this entire fic should be in the library of Alexandria. The tenderness- the vulnerability? The //why do you still look at him that way// BECAUSE SHE LOVES YOU YOU FOOL! also the part that goes:

“…not much,” he admits instead. “you act as if i’m on death’s door.”

“and you act as if you’re invincible,” you retort softly.

> OH. OH DUDE. FIGHT BACK BRO FIGHT BACK. LET ME GET UP FIRST REN GEEZ. that killed me inside. Standing forking ovation because this was delicious. A five star meal. Also his darling wife? Yeah okay I see you. I see you.

Re: ACT III.

mydei was super Ultra Mega fine in this bit. Like yes king pop off no on gets to treat your spouse like this 🤭

phainon’s steps slow, his brow lifting ever so slightly, as if he isn’t sure whether he misheard you or if you’re simply playing coy. "you don’t think he—" he exhales a sharp chuckle, running a hand through his hair. "hah. now that’s funny."

> HAHAHAHAHAHAHAH. AHHAEHHAEHWUHAWUAHEUHW. PHAINON WHAT. NO. COME BACK HERE. reader my dearest ily but be so fr rn.

at some point, curiosity gets the better of you. “your highne—”

“mydei.”

>Giggled like a school girl. MYDEI MYDEI MYDEI. It's simple moments like this that makes me grin till I feel my the skin of my lips split.

(because with you, he doesn't need to be the prince of kremnos, nor the valiant warrior they call mydeimos. he’s just your husband, mydei.)

> He's just our husband. Mydei. THE SOB I LET OUT. OU. I WANNA CRADDLE THIS MAN IN MY ARMS. I WANNA BE CRADDLED IN HIS ARMS. HE'S JUST MYDEI. *Breaks down*

and this time, when his hand hovers close to yours, you don’t resist the urge to let your fingers brush.

> He. He took care of the flowers. Man. I feel single. TF you mean he went to the market to get fertilizer so that he can take special care of the flowers you gave him. Huh. I'm. Ren I hate you sm /pos

RE: ACT IV

OH. AS SOON AS I READ THE TITLE. I WAS SOLD. I JUST KNEW IT'D BE KICKING MY FEET. SIRI PLAY JEALOUS BY NICK JONAS.

I mean no disrespect

It's my right to be hellish

I still get jealous

> Mydei at some point probably. Except he meant all the disrespect.

mydei’s eyes flick to him, and if looks could kill, phainon would be six feet under —and the former wouldn’t even spare the effort to toss dirt over his grave.

> THE FACT THAT ITS PHAINON BAHABWHABEJW I LOVE IT. PHAINON YOU SLY FOX YOU. I LOVE HIM SO MUCH TTTT. phainon and mydei interactions my beloved. It's the 'you dare utter those words infront of me? Are you asking to be stabbed?' stare.

phainon tilts his head, his smile just sly enough to make you wary. “feed me.”

> WINGMAN PHAINON. YES SIIRRRRRRRE. I SEE YOU. I HEAR YOU. I KNOW WHERE THIS IS GOING.

mydei smoothly takes the sweet straight from your fingers, his lips brushing against your fingertips in the process; his gaze locked onto yours as he takes a bite.

and before you can pull away —the barest hint of his tongue swipes against the sugar-dusted tips of your fingers, licking away the faint trace of sweetness left behind.

> FORK YOU REN. FORK YOU TO THE HEAVENS BECAUSE WTHUCK IS THIS. YOU CANT SLIP THIS IN CASUALLY. WHAT ABOUT MY HEART. YOU'RE GONNA SEND ME INTO A COMMA. MYDEI LIKES SWEET THINGS? HELLO? WTHFOWBTOWNCOWNG. I CANT EVEN DESCRIBE THE FEELIGNS IM FEELING RN. MY FACE FEELS HOT AND MY HEAD STARTED THROBBING. if I die now, ren is the culprit. MYDEI ARE YOU A CAT. YOU FORKING. SMOOTH CRIMINAL. TOO SMOOTH. LIQUID SMOOTH.

phainon wonders if he’s about to be thrown out of the castle with the way you and mydei glare at him (for different reasons, respectively)... but judging by his smirk, he finds the risk well worth it.

> phainon playing match maker is my favourite thing ever. THIS CONNIVING MAN BWUHAUEHAUW.

you glance back down at your embroidery, but before you can add another stitch, phainon strides up to you, shaking out his arms with an exaggerated sigh. “ow… you saw that, right?” he whines, flopping down beside you with an exaggerated sigh. “he’s being so rough with me today!”

> REN IM SORRY HELP WHY IS ALL MY COMMENTS ON PHAINON. what a whiny baby 😭 Phainon my beloved why must you trump my comments on mydei. Ren Phainon fic when? Rennie I'm begging on my knees. Anyways back to fawning over mydei.

a warm hand brushes against your temple, fingers gently threading through your hair as they tuck it behind your ear.

his gaze is so unbearably soft.

> Oh dude fork me. I'm sorry that the only compliments I can give is practically just boothill curse words but like fork me to hell because. BECAUSE. EUEUUEE IM GNAWING AT THE SHEETS. MYDEI YOU. YOU FOOL. YOU SOFTIE. YOU SWEETHEART.

Re: ACT V.

without a word, your husband takes the handkerchief from your hand, presses it to his brow, and dabs away the sweat collecting at his temple; then folds it neatly and tucks it into his belt where everyone can see.

> FUCKKK YEAHHHH BROOOOOOO. THIS IS WHAT IM TALKING ABOUT. THIS IS WHAT THE CROWD WANTS. THIS IS WHAT WE WERE WAITING FOR. I DREAMED OF TIMES LIKE THIS.

you manage a soft smile. “then bring back the victor’s crown for me, will you?”

“if it’s for you,”

> My heart. It's overloaded with pomegranate juice and cake.

in a flash, he wraps an arm around your waist and hauls you into his arms, lifting you effortlessly off the ground. he spins you in a wide, sweeping circle before drawing you close. his eyes locking with yours, a triumphant grin playing on his lips.

> WHERES THE TROPHY. HE JUST COMES RUNNING OVER TO ME

TOUCH THEM CALL THE AMATEURS AND CUT EM FROM THE TEAM.

LITERALLY THIS MOMENT. THIS MOMENT. PINNACLE OF MY LIFE. ALTER OF MY DAY. I LOVE THIS. MOMENTS LIKE THESE MY BELOVED. WELL EXECUTED. FELT EVERY RUSH OF EMOTION AS I READ..

Re: EPILOGUE

he hums, the sound low and content as he presses a kiss to your temple. “i do,” he whispers. “if there’s one thing i’ll always be sure of, it’s you.”

> perfect end. Love forehead kisses till I die. ON MY GRAVE. I NEED THIS FIC ON MY GRAVESTONE. ENGRAVED IN THE MARBLE WHERE I LAY.

—how to win my husband over 101

in which : you marry the ruthless prince of kremnos, and everyone says you'll never thaw his heart. but you’re nothing if not stubborn. surely all you have to do is win him over right? how hard can that be?

wc 8.7k (it’s worth it trust me), historical au, marriage of convenience, sunshine x grumpy, strangers to lovers, you fell first + he fell harder, fem reader referred to as “princess” / “milady”, ts burns so slow u might rip ur hair out sorry, heavily ib how to get my husband on my side. art by @/kannbergri on x.

surprise pookies @vxnuslogy @luvether @knnichs @kazucee it’s finally here!!!!

PROLOGUE: HOW TO SURVIVE THE EARLY DAYS

you married a stranger to save your homeland.

there was no love in the arrangement, no romantic vows exchanged beneath moonlit skies, no promises of forever whispered in soft voices. just firm handshakes and signatures inked on parchment.

it was a straightforward agreement: kremnos would protect your people in exchange for a union, and you were sent to marry the crown prince, mydeimos, to solidify the alliance.

you had heard his name long before you ever saw his face. prince mydeimos of kremnos —a name whispered with reverence, with fear, with awe; carrying the weight of countless victories carved into the blood-soaked chaos of battlefields.

but none of those stories prepared you for the reality of him.

the grand hall of kremnos' palace feels colder than you imagined.

marble floors stretch endlessly beneath your feet, polished to a gleaming perfection that seems to reflect the distance between you and the life awaiting you here. the walls, adorned with banners of deep reds and golds, do little to warm the oppressive air.

servants pass by in hushed movements, their heads bowed, their whispers inaudible. the air carries the faint aroma of polished wood and lingering incense, yet there is no warmth to be found —not in the hall, not from the people, and certainly not from the man standing at the far end of the room.

you bow slightly out of instinct, a gesture of respect, though you feel foolish doing so in the context of your marriage.

dressed in the royal garb of kremnos, a deep red cloak embroidered with gold thread draped over his shoulders, his marigold eyes lock onto yours with piercing intensity.

“princess,” he greets you, his words polished to a fault —exactly what you’d expect from a prince.

“your highness,” you reply, matching his formality.

“welcome to kremnos, i trust the journey was not too difficult.”

it’s not a question, you realize. merely a statement to acknowledge your presence. you offer a polite nod, “the journey was smooth, your highness,” you reply, your voice steady despite the unease creeping into your chest. “thank you for your hospitality.”

you watch as he takes a glass of reddish liquid from a servant standing nearby, lifting it to his lips with ease, the vibrant color catching your eye.

the rich crimson hue seems too unnatural for something as mundane as wine. your gaze fixes on the glass as he drinks, a chill running down your spine as an unsettling thought creeps in.

is he drinking... blood?

your heart skips, a sudden nervousness, and you quickly avert your gaze, unable to meet his eyes.

he catches your stare however, “what is it that you find so fascinating?”

flustered, you lower your head, stammering, "i... beg your pardon, your highness.”

you can feel your pulse quicken, the heat rising in your cheeks as you panic. the weight of his cold gaze is almost unbearable, and you fear you’ve already made a fool of yourself.

for a moment, you dare not look at him, the silence stretching uncomfortably between you.

the prince casually wipes the red liquid from his lips with the back of his hand, as your eyes drift involuntarily toward the glass once more, still questioning its contents.

his eyes flicker to you as they narrow, “still curious?”

you freeze, wrecking your head for a sensible answer lest you further embarrass yourself.

with a sharp sigh, he places the glass down on the tray. “it’s pomegranate juice, nothing more.”

you blink, stunned for a moment, the absurdity of your previous assumption crashing down on you.

“pomegranate juice,” you repeat softly, as if testing the words to see if they make sense.

“yes. is that so difficult to believe?”

that night, you lay on the luxurious bed in your chamber, the events of the evening swirling in your mind. you shake your head, embarrassed by your own overactive imagination.

you turn onto your side, pulling the heavy blankets tighter around you, but sleep evades you.

yes, your husband is a man of few words, fewer emotions, and absolutely no warmth when it comes to you. yet within that frost lies a heart, waiting for the right touch to thaw it.

ACT I: HOW TO DRAW HIS ATTENTION

over the weeks, you've learned many peculiar things about your husband.

you’ve noticed, for instance, that he always rises before dawn, and spends hours in the training grounds perfecting his form —an unyielding warrior at heart. or how he has an unusual preference for adding goat's milk to his pomegranate juice, a combination that strikes you as strange yet somehow fitting for him.

you’ve also discovered that, contrary to expectations, he favors the color pink —an oddly delicate choice for a man so rigid in his demeanor. and while he is undeniably polite, he also remains stern and is not one to easily open up, not even to those closest to him.

all that you've learned, you’ve used in an attempt to earn his favor, though your effort often feels like trying to breach a concrete wall.

(one day, you deliberately rise early, before the sun fully breaks over the horizon, and make your way to the training grounds.

there, you find a concealed spot in the shadows, watching him spar with the guards. you’ve gone, in part, because you want him to know you care, but also because of the impressive display of his skill that subconsciously draws you in.

it’s not long before he notices your presence; his expression remains impassive, but his gaze hardens, narrowing slightly as he observes you making your way to him from across the field.

as you finally reach him, you extend the water in your hand. but just as you take a step closer, your foot catches on an uneven stone. you stumble forward, crashing into him, and spilling the cold water across his chest.

the gasp that escapes you is quickly followed by frantic apologies.

"princess," he says coolly, the water dripping from his toned muscles, tracing the lines of his broad shoulders and down his chest. "...are you always this clumsy, or is today a special occasion?"

ah.

well at least he has jokes..?)

or after noticing how he often stays silent during meals, you decide to change the pace.

(at the dining hall, you ask about his interests, but he only gives brief, impersonal responses; his attention fixed on his plate, quietly indulging in the honey-drenched pancakes. you try to make a lighthearted joke, but he doesn’t even look up, offering only a polite “i see” before the silence drapes over the table again.

so, you finally decide to try a more… direct approach —flattery. surely, no man can resist a little charm, right?

you lean close as you gather all the courage you can muster, batting your eyelashes at him hoping you appear as endearing as you intend.

"i must say, my dear husband, you —uh, you are unmatched in your… strength and wisdom. it’s no wonder my heart can’t help but be drawn to you..?”

well that didn’t exactly sound convincing.

“and… your arms, they’re quite impressive. i mean —wait, that’s not what i meant—”

and that certainly didn’t make it any better!

you brace yourself, expecting a sharp rebuke or, at the very least, some irritation. but instead, he simply nods, offering a brief, detached “thank you” before turning his attention back to his meal.

you immediately avert your gaze, feeling a pang of relief. though it’s strange to think that at any moment, your husband might decide to chop your head off for being so foolish (...if he felt so inclined) he is the crowned prince, after all; and while his politeness is unsettling, it’s still better than his wrath... right?)

either way, it’s clear that your efforts have made not the slightest dent. better luck next time!

today will be different.

failure has never sat well with you, and after last night’s mortifying attempt at charming your husband, you refuse to let things end on such a dismal note. if words fail, then perhaps actions will speak louder.

so, with a woven basket tucked under your arm, you wander through the palace gardens first, where roses and marigolds flourish in a riot of color, their petals unfurling like delicate silk under the afternoon sun. honeysuckle vines twist gracefully around the trellises, their sweet fragrance lingering in the warm afternoon air.

you kneel amidst the blooms, fingers brushing over soft petals, feeling the gentle give of each flower beneath your touch. carefully, you pluck a few of each, tucking them gently into your basket, mindful of their fragile stems. you arrange them just so, already picturing the bouquet coming together in your hands.

but as you wander further, you find yourself drawn toward the edge of the estate. past the hedgerows and beyond the garden’s stone pathway, you notice something that catches your eye, a cluster of wildflowers —soft pinks and gentle whites.

perfect! these will be the finishing touch to complete your bouquet for mydeimos.

pleased with yourself, you smile and make your way toward the water’s edge. leaning forward, you stretch out to pluck one, your body lowering toward the ground, shifting your weight slightly, when—

a sudden force slams into your back.

the breath is knocked clean from your lungs. there's no time to react as the world tilts violently, and before you can even scream, the cold shock of water swallows you whole.

it’s deeper than you thought.

icy water rushes into your nose and mouth, sending a searing burn down your throat. panic grips you as the world above fractures into shimmering light, distorted by the rippling surface. you try to push yourself up, but alas, the weight of your dress still drags you down.

as you thrash around uselessly, your limbs start growing heavier. the surface above you slips further away; and the last thing you register is the sensation of strong arms wrapping around you —with a final strained breath, your vision dims to nothingness.

the next thing you feel is warmth.

your head rests against something solid, a steady rise and fall beneath your cheek .a firm hold keeps you close, one braced securely around your back, the other hooked beneath your knees.

you blink sluggishly, your lashes heavy with water. that’s when you realise, you’re in the arms of your husband.

his hair clings to his forehead, damp strands framing the sharp angles of his face. droplets trace slow paths down his jawline, soaking into the dark fabric of his tunic —leaving nothing to the imagination.

for a moment, disoriented and breathless, you can only blink up at him.

did he jump in after you..?

“why did you wander off alone?” he chastises, snapping you back to reality.

your throat feels tight, your heart hammering in your chest. "i-i just wanted to do something for you!" the confession spills from your lips, desperate, your fingers clinging instinctively to the soaked fabric of his sleeve.

it’s foolish, maybe, but you’re still reeling —from the near drowning, from the fact that mydeimos saved you.

he exhales sharply, exasperation heavy in his breath. "why are you like this…" his grip tightens on you, but there’s a tension in his voice as if he’s swallowing something he can’t quite put into words. “didn’t i say there’s no need to attract attention this way?"

the accusation stings, your brows knit together as you shake your head, droplets of water slipping down your temples. "i just… thought you’d like some flowers."

his fingers, still curled beneath your back, twitch slightly, his hold unconsciously steadying you.

mydeimos shifts, adjusting his hold on you before finally rising to his feet. the movement is effortless, but even so, a sharp chill runs through you as the air bites at your damp skin. before you can fully steady yourself, he places you down, his hands lingering for a second longer than necessary before withdrawing.

your dress clings uncomfortably to you, heavy with water, and when you glance down, you spot the basket lying a short distance away, half-tilted on the grass. the flowers you so carefully picked are scattered around it, petals crumpled, stems bent.

a pit forms in your stomach. all that effort, and now—

a shadow moves beside you. mydeimos steps forward, the hem of his cloak grazing against the fallen blooms. he considers them for a moment, then looks back at you.

“well?” his voice is steady, and you can’t quite grasp the intention behind it. “you went through all that trouble to gather the flowers… aren’t you going to give them to me?”

sure they're not nearly as perfect as they were when you first picked them. still, you kneel, fingers brushing over the damp grass as you carefully pick up the least damaged flowers, smoothing out the crumpled petals as best you can.

“…here.” slowly, hesitantly, you extend the bouquet towards him.

his fingers brush against yours as he accepts the flowers. “sorry they’re ruined,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper.

he shakes his head, unbothered. “they’re mine now, so i’ll take care of them.”

there’s no mockery in his expression, no disdain for your failed efforts. if anything, there’s something almost unreadable in the way he looks at you, something that makes your heart lurch against your ribs.

he spares you one last glance, then turns. “come. you need to get changed before you fall ill.”

and just like that, your husband walks ahead, idly twirling one of the flowers between his fingers. hardened steel and soft petals, strength and fragility; it doesn't look out of place.

somehow, it fits him too well.

ACT II: HOW TO CARE FOR A WARRIOR

once a year, the empire erupts into feverish anticipation for the annual gladiatorial tournament. a traditional competition of strength, bloodshed, and sheer willpower.

held in the heart of the capital, within the city of kremnos; warriors from across the kingdom —such as knights from noble houses, seasoned mercenaries, and ambitious upstarts, all gather within the grand coliseum, each vying for glory, honor, or a place in history.

and three weeks from now, the coliseum will roar with life, filled to the brim with nobles and commoners alike, all eager to witness the blood and glory that’ll unfold within the arena.

the tournament may be weeks away, but mydeimos knows better than to grow complacent.

within the castle training grounds, the clash of steel echoes through the air, each strike reverberating like a war drum. two figures move in relentless rhythm, locked in a sparring match that is as much a dance as it is a battle.

the crown prince presses forward, his sword carving ruthless arcs through the air, a feint —then a sudden, brutal swing aimed at his opponent’s side.

phainon barely manages to parry, their blades grinding against each other in a fierce deadlock. exhaling sharply through his nose, he holds firm against the pressure. “mydei,” phainon mutters, breathless. “don't hold back."

mydei’s gaze remains unreadable, but there’s a flicker of something —amusement, perhaps, before he abruptly shifts his weight. with a sharp twist, he breaks the deadlock.

“HKS,” he counters, shoving forward with enough strength to force phainon back a step. “getting tired?”

phainon lets out a short laugh, adjusting his stance. “not in the slightest.” he disengages, spinning his blade in a quick counterstrike.

alas, the fight reaches no clear victor, ending in yet another stalemate.

exhaling, phainon lowers his blade. “not bad.”

but before mydei can respond; a slow, warm trickle down his arm draws his attention. his gaze flickers downward —a thin slash mars his bicep, blood welling along the cut.

the knight’s expression shifts, eyes catching on the wound. “heh looks like i take the win this time,” he gloats, though there’s a slightest hint of concern in his tone.

“...though i do apologise, your highness,” phainon says, eyeing the wound with a tilt of his head.

mydei rolls his shoulder, testing the ache, then huffs. “nothing to be sorry for.” his lips curl slightly, eyes flicking back to phainon.

“but don’t think this means i’m letting you off easy. we’ll settle it properly next time.”

“oh? and here i thought you’d take the loss with dignity for once,” phainon snorts, sheathing his blade in one smooth motion. “but i suppose i wouldn’t want you growing too accustomed to losing.”

mydei doesn’t know why you’re worrying so much.

the cut is insignificant, to him at least. within hours, it’ll be gone —his body already stitching itself back together. he doesn’t need tending to, least of all by you.

and yet, here you are.

as you sit beside him, your hands deftly press a cloth soaked in cool water to his wound, cleaning away the dried blood with careful strokes. for some reason, seeing you like this —fussing over him with a tenderness he’s never quite experienced before —renders him quiet.

“…you’re frowning,” he murmurs.

“because you’re hurt,” you say as a matter of factly, setting the cloth aside before reaching for a bandage. your fingers are gentle as they smooth it over his skin, lightly tracing the curves of his biceps.

he watches the way your lips press together, tying the final knot with a delicate tug, patting the fabric down as if to reassure yourself that it will hold.

something tugs at the edge of his mind.

you’ve pretended to love him ever since you stepped foot in kremnos; he thought he knew every expression you wore, every feigned tenderness. but this —this time, it’s different. there’s no audience here, no need for the carefully crafted role of the adoring wife.

so why do you still look at him like that?

his breath stills. he doesn’t know what to make of this.

“…please be more careful next time.” mydei glances at his arm, the ache is already fading.

you don’t know how pointless all of this is. by morning, there won’t even be a scar.

you exhale softly, your brows still furrowed in concern. then, as if unable to help yourself, your fingertips ghost over the bandage, smoothing it down with a tenderness that makes his chest tighten.

“does it still hurt?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

he should say no. he should tell you it’s nothing.

but when he looks at you —sees the way your eyes linger on him, so earnestly unguarded. he falters.

“…not much,” he admits instead. “you act as if i’m on death’s door.”

“and you act as if you’re invincible,” you retort softly.

he freezes.

he almost laughs at the irony of it —because in some ways, you aren’t wrong. his body will always mend itself, his wounds never lasting long enough to be of real consequence.

but his darling wife doesn’t know that.

and perhaps that’s why he lets you worry, lets you dote on him with such sweet, unknowing devotion. because, against all logic —against everything he’s told himself, he finds that he likes it.

your touch finally retreats, hands settling in your lap. “i’ll leave you to rest, your highness.”

you rise from your seat, and as you turn to leave, mydei catches himself watching the space where your hands had been, the phantom warmth still resting against his skin.

for a wound that’s already gone, he finds it strange —how reluctant he is to let it fade.

ACT III: HOW TO AVOID MISUNDERSTANDINGS

"sir phainon, thank you for showing me around the city," you say, offering the man beside you a faint smile as you step around a corner.

the knight dips his head, “of course, milady. the pleasure’s all mine."

you’re glad phainon took time off to accompany you —wandering the city alone would’ve definitely left you lost and stewing in your own thoughts.

phainon glances at you, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth. "but i’m surprised his highness let you wander the city with another man," he muses.

you let out a small laugh, running your fingers along the petals of a flower display as you pass by. "well, i don’t think he cares."

you shoot a puzzled look at him,"what is?"

to phainon, who’s seen the way mydei looks at you, heard the way he speaks of you; your words make no sense at all.

—but he holds his tongue. "nothing, milady. let’s keep walking before i say something i shouldn’t."

the warmth of the moment sours when you round a corner near the market square. there, just past a cluster of gossiping nobles, mydei stands stiffly, arms crossed as he listens to a young woman speak.

you recognize her —a lady-in-waiting that serves in the palace.

“…always playing the victim,” she sneers, voice pitched just loud enough to draw attention. “everyone pities her, but really, she’s just an outsider to kremnos—”

your steps falter, confusion flickering across your face. is that lady… talking about you?

“she was never worthy of standing by his highness’s side!” the lady continues with simpering disdain.

beside you, your companion stiffens, his fingers subtly curling at his sides. he’s noticed, too.

but before you can fully process the words, she lets out a haughty laugh. “she tripped herself that day. i only gave her a little push and—”

“what?” mydei’s voice cuts through the air, his eyes narrowing.

the lady startles, whipping around to face him, but quickly smooths her expression into one of feigned innocence. “y-your highness…” she lowers her head just slightly. “i only meant that a mere nudge shouldn’t have been enough to send her stumbling so helplessly.”

she offers a small, demure smile. “unless, of course, one lacks the grace befitting a princess.”

“it was unfortunate that your highness was troubled because of—”

her words trail off as her gaze flicks to the side, right where you stand.

and in that fleeting moment, mydei follows her line of sight.

your breath catches. you hadn’t meant to be seen.

a small, almost imperceptible smirk forms on her lips; just as mydei glances to your side, his attention diverted for a split second; she falls toward him, her body angling toward him in a way that all but demands he steady her.

you feel a jolt of realization —her intentions are clear as day towards you.

mydei’s eyes barely flicker as she topples toward him, but his hand moves —not to steady her, as she so clearly intended, but to seize her wrist in a firm, unyielding grip.

with a sharp tug, he wrenches her upright, the motion not even close to an act of chivalry.

a startled gasp slips past her lips, her wide eyes darting up, stunned by the strength of his hold. the gathered onlookers murmur amongst themselves as the prince fixes her with a cold, unreadable stare.

“tell me. are you purposely trying to cause a misunderstanding between me and my wife?”

the lady blanches, her mouth opening and closing as she scrambles for a response. “y-your highness, i would never—”

“spare me the excuses.” his fingers uncoil, and she stumbles back, barely catching herself. she cradles her wrist as though burned, whether from pain or humiliation, it’s hard to tell.

“guards.” mydeimos doesn’t raise his voice, but the command rings clear. two armored figures stationed nearby immediately step forward, “take her away.”

“y-your highness, i only—”

mydeimos doesn’t even spare her a glance as he delivers the lady’s fate. “for daring to put her hands on the princess, she is to be punished accordingly. let this serve as a reminder, such conduct has no place in my court.”

the color drains from her face as the guards seize her by the arms, her protests falling on deaf ears. the onlookers part to make way, some exchanging knowing glances, others whispering amongst themselves.

then mydeimos’ gaze softens —only slightly, in your direction.

phainon leans in, “and yet, milady insists that his highness does not care?”

but you don’t respond, heart fluttering traitorously in your chest as mydeimos turns on his heel and strides toward you.

with a small tilt of his head, he nods to phainon before finally speaking.

“she was desperate,” he remarks, voice edged with dry amusement. “did you see how she threw herself at me? pitiful.”

he studies you for a moment, something unreadable flickering behind his gaze. “...you weren’t fooled, were you?”

you blink, caught off guard by his question. “of course not, your highness.”

ah. was he worried you’d misunderstand?

his lips part slightly, but no words come, instead he just exhales softly, as if to himself. “good.”

phainon, ever perceptive, arches a brow but says nothing of it. instead, he steps back with a knowing tilt of his head. “well then, i shall take my leave. duty calls, after all, milady, your highness.” with that, he turns on his heel and disappears into the crowd, leaving just the two of you.

mydei’s eyes linger on you —searching, almost reluctant, before he finally tears his gaze away. “we should go.”

he starts walking, and you follow, the quiet rhythm between you shifting in a way that's hard to place. it’s subtle, so subtle that if you weren’t paying enough attention, you might’ve missed it.

the way his steps fall in sync with yours, slowing his usually large strides ever so slightly, as if unconsciously matching your pace. the way his hand hovers near yours, close enough that if you swayed even slightly, your fingers might brush.

it doesn’t feel intentional, and yet, it doesn’t feel like an accident either.

the marketplace hums around you both; vendors calling out their wares, the scent of fresh bread and spices curling through the air. but your mind is elsewhere, lingering on the man beside you, on the things left unsaid.

at some point, curiosity gets the better of you. “your highne—” “mydei.”

…would it be foolish of you to think of it as a plea? that, beneath the indifference he wears so well, he cares how his name sounds when spoken by you?

(because with you, he doesn't need to be the prince of kremnos, nor the valiant warrior they call mydeimos. he’s just your husband, mydei.)

you glance up at him, but his gaze stays ahead. he doesn’t offer an explanation; your thoughts linger on that single word, and maybe that’s why, after a moment’s hesitation, you decide to give it a try.

“mydei… what were you doing in the market today?”

he doesn’t answer right away. a terribly fond smile tugging at his lips.

he looks good like this, you think.

with a glance to the side, he replies, “nothing of importance.”

a half-truth, at best.

your thoughts drift back to the last time you were here —the flowers you had given him, bright and delicate in his hands. an odd sight, perhaps, yet somehow, they suited him.

a ridiculous thought takes root before you can stop it.

could he have been looking for ways to take care of them? …surely not.

but any doubt vanishes the moment a florist calls out to him. “your highness! you’ve returned! here, this is the care guide you requested, along with the special fertilizer. it should help the flowers bloom beautifully.”

mydei takes the offered items with a nod, thanking the florist who beams, clearly pleased to be of service.

"you must truly cherish them, your highness," they remark. "not many would go through such trouble for a simple bouquet."

mydei only hums in response, tucking the items away as he turns back to you. for a moment, it almost seems like he might explain himself, but instead, he merely lifts a brow, as if daring you to say something about it.

warmth unfurls at the edges of your chest, spreading slowly, irresistibly.

you press your lips together, fighting the smile threatening to surface. "so," you muse lightly, "you’ve been taking good care of my flowers?”

mydei exhales, the ghost of an amused smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "it would be a shame if they wilted so soon,” he says. then, as he starts walking again, a quiet afterthought —so soft you almost miss it.

"especially when they were a gift from you."

and this time, when his hand hovers close to yours, you don’t resist the urge to let your fingers brush.

ACT IV: HOW TO TAME HIS JEALOUS HEART

it’s late —past the hour most would retire, yet the training grounds remains lit by torches that flicker against the cool stone walls, their flames casting long, dancing shadows. mydeimos leans back against the walls, arms loosely folded across his chest as his gaze follows phainon sharpening his blade a few paces away —though, truthfully, his thoughts are elsewhere.

it’s phainon who breaks the silence first.

“you know,” he starts, glancing up without looking directly at the prince, “you’re awfully quiet these days, your highness.”

he wipes his sword down lazily, throwing a glance over his shoulder. "...say, mydei."

mydei doesn’t look up, but his posture shifts, "what?"

phainon lets the silence drag for a moment, almost like he’s weighing his next words.

“do you have genuine feelings for [name]?"

the words land like a blow in the silence between them; he doesn’t bother to wait for an answer.

“because if you don’t, i was thinking maybe i’d give courting her a try.”

ah. that does it.

mydei’s eyes flick to him, and if looks could kill, phainon would be six feet under —and the former wouldn’t even spare the effort to toss dirt over his grave.

phainon laughs quietly under his breath at his comrade’s reaction, not bothering to hide the tilt of his mouth.

“don’t cross the line.” the words fall from mydei’s lips, low and clipped like a warning.

phainon laughs —the kind of laugh shared only between men who’ve known each other long enough to grow used to the other’s sharp edges.

“relax,” he drawls, sheathing his blade with a lazy flick. “i was just joking, you can stop glaring at me now.”

“i’m not mad i—”

“you’re not mad because you think i meant it,” he cuts in. “you’re angry because you know i’m right. you’ve been walking around pretending like she doesn’t mean a thing to you, bottling up every damn thing you feel for her. if it were anyone else, they’d have given up by now.”

mydei looks away. “she’s not anyone else,” he mutters.

phainon smiles. “then tell her.”

mydei stays uncharacteristically silent as phainon steps past with a clap on his shoulder. “you're lucky she’s patient.”

the sour look on your husband’s face whenever phainon’s name comes up is a recent development.

you first noticed it in passing: an almost imperceptible downturn of his lips, a restrained (but still noticeable) eyeroll or the press of his lips into a tight line. at first, you thought nothing of it. but lately… it’s been happening a lot.

right now, you’re seated in the castle’s sunlit tea room with someone you can now call a friend —phainon. the scent of fresh brews curls in the air, warm and comforting, but it does little to soothe the frustration tightening in your chest.

phainon leans back in his seat as you lay your troubles before him. surely, as one of mydei’s closest friends, he could offer some worthwhile advice on how to win the latter’s heart.

because at this rate, if you don’t manage to win him over before your contract runs its course, you wouldn’t be surprised to wake up with his sword cold against the nape of your neck.

“so… what do you think?” you ask, poking at a pastry with your fork.

phainon hums, tilting his head in thought. “he’s a reserved man —you’ve probably figured that out by now. give him some time, he’s the type to take forever to realize what’s right in front of him.”

he shrugs, a smirk tugging at his lips. “though, i do hope milady won’t give up on him just yet.”

you nod, committing his words to memory, but then he suddenly straightens, that familiar glint of mischief lighting his gaze.

“actually,” he muses, glancing down at his hands, now dusted with crumbs and icing, “my hands are a bit of a mess from this cake. mind doing me a favor?”

he lifts his sugar-coated fingers in emphasis.

you eye him suspiciously. “...what kind of favor?”

phainon tilts his head, his smile just sly enough to make you wary. “feed me.”

narrowing your eyes, you scoff at his request, “look, buster—”

“just this once,” he interrupts, grinning. “think of it as repaying me for my advice.”

there’s something almost too innocent about the way he leans in, like he’s well aware of what he’s doing… or rather, what exactly might happen if a certain someone were to walk in.

still, with an exaggerated sigh, you pick up a piece of pastry and lift it towards him—

only for a firm grip to catch your wrist before you can.

just your luck.

mydei smoothly takes the sweet straight from your fingers, his lips brushing against your fingertips in the process; his gaze locked onto yours as he takes a bite.

and before you can pull away —the barest hint of his tongue swipes against the sugar-dusted tips of your fingers, licking away the faint trace of sweetness left behind.

did he just—?

heat rushes to your face. your mouth parts, but no sound comes out.

phainon whistles lowly. “oh yeah i forgot to mention,” he says, far too amused.

“the prince has a sweet tooth.”

for a moment, the only sound in the room is the soft clink of porcelain as phainon sets down his teacup, watching the scene unfold with thinly veiled amusement.

all you can do is stare —frozen, pulse skittering in your throat.

mydei, on the other hand, is utterly unbothered. if anything, he looks as composed as ever, chewing leisurely, as if he didn’t just—

your fingers twitch in his grasp. finally, he releases your wrist, his touch lingering just a second too long before he pulls away.

you snatch your hand back like you’ve been burned, curling your fingers against your palm as if that will erase the phantom heat of his lips, the fleeting press of his tongue.

the annual gladiatorial tournament is only days away, and kremnos is already stirring with anticipation. you’ve heard the chatter in the halls, the wagers placed on champions, the hushed whispers of which warriors will rise and which will fall.

seated on a bench near the training grounds, you let the rhythmic clash of weapons fade into background noise, your focus trained instead on the fabric in your hands. a delicate handkerchief, its edges carefully stitched, the embroidery thread gliding through with each careful motion of your needle.

you had learned from a few noble ladies: it’s tradition for warriors to receive tokens of fortune from their beloveds —most commonly, a handkerchief embroidered with care to carry into battle as a reminder that someone’s waiting for them to return.

before you, the clash of steel rings out as two men spar. you glance up just in time to see phainon nimbly dodge a particularly heavy swing, a grin tugging at his lips. “feeling a little aggressive today, aren’t we?”

mydei doesn’t respond. he simply readjusts his grip on his sword, his expression unreadable.

(if you had to put money on why mydei was more aggressive than usual, you’d wager it had something to do with that stunt phainon pulled a few days ago that had left the former in such a foul mood.)

you return to your stitching, pretending not to notice the way your husband’s eyes flicker toward you between exchanges. unknowingly, a small smile tugs at your lips as you press the needle through the cloth once more.

rumors had circulated for years that prince mydeimos had never once accepted a handkerchief from anyone. not from the ladies who fawned over him at court, not from the admirers who sighed at the sight of his swordsmanship, not even from those with the highest of pedigrees.

it was said that no handkerchief had ever found its way into his hands, let alone remained in his possession. you weren’t sure why; perhaps he found them frivolous, or maybe he had no interest in sentimental keepsakes when he relied on skill alone to survive.

…which didn’t exactly bode well for the one currently in your hands.

so as you carefully stitch your embroidery, you don’t hold out much hope that he’ll accept yours either.

still, it wouldn’t do for the beloved wife of mydeimos to be the only one who hadn’t even offered her husband a handkerchief. whether he accepted it or not was secondary —your duty was to at least play the part expected of you.

as the sparring match winds down, mydei steps off to the side, catching his breath. you discreetly watch as him roll his shoulders, wiping a sheen of sweat from his brow.

you arch a brow, biting back a laugh as he leans against the edge of the bench. “poor thing,” you say, amused. “what did you do to deserve it?”

phainon grins. “absolutely nothing, milady.”

you shake your head, obviously unconvinced —but then, just like that, his playful pout melts into a coprophagous grin that spells nothing but trouble.

oh no.

“if he wants to be mean,” he muses, tilting his head, “then maybe i should give him a reason for it.”

you frown. “phainon—”

he says, far too casually, “i think i’ve got an idea.”

he leans in slightly, a wolfish grin on his face. “just play along, alright?”

“huh?”

"here, let me show you something." before you can react, phainon takes your hand, pulling you up from your seat with ease. a moment later, a wooden practice sword is tossed into your grasp.

you barely have time to protest before he’s already behind you, his hands resting lightly over yours as he adjusts your grip.

"see?" his voice is low, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath near your ear. "you hold it like this, and—"

“that’s enough.”

both you and phainon turn to see mydei standing a few feet away. he doesn’t look outwardly furious, but there’s the tension in his shoulders says enough.

phainon merely raises an eyebrow. “oh? something wrong, your highness?”

the air thickens and you can practically feel the sparks flying. sensing the storm that’s about to break, you quickly slip out of phainon’s grasp and rush toward mydei, practically throwing yourself into his arms.

“mydei!” you call, mustering the sweetest voice you can manage, hoping to calm him down (before phainon gets his ass kicked again). “y-you must be exhausted after all that training today… why don’t we head back and get some rest?”

a warm hand brushes against your temple, fingers gently threading through your hair as they tuck it behind your ear.

even though you were the one who threw yourself at mydei, you find yourself frozen, heart hammering at the unexpected tenderness in his touch.

his gaze is so unbearably soft.

after a moment, mydei exhales and nods before leading you away.

you steal a glance back at phainon—who only winks and flashes you a thumbs-up.

(mydei lets out a quiet sigh of relief, watching as you do everything in your power to avoid meeting his eyes. if he had stayed any longer and if phainon had caught sight of the faint flush dusting his cheeks —he’d never hear the end of it.)

ACT V: HOW TO EARN HIS DEVOTION

the sun hangs high above kremnos, casting a golden blaze over the arena as the city wakes to the sound of distant drums and the clang of steel. colorful banners bearing the insignias of noble houses flutter from towering spires, while anticipation clings thick to the air.

all of kremnos knows what day it is. the long-awaited gladiatorial tournament has finally arrived.

from the highest nobles draped in silk to the lowest commoners pressed shoulder-to-shoulder in the stands, all eyes are drawn to the bloodstained sand at the heart of the arena.

the rules are simple, brutal, unforgiving: fight until your opponent yields, or until they can no longer stand. and of course, there's no word for “mercy” in the kremnoan language… as mydei would say it.

the air in the holding chambers, hidden beneath the grand coliseum, is heavy with the scent of iron and sweat. you step inside with your small offering in hand: the handkerchief you embroidered, each stitch woven with thoughts of him.

and today, you see you’re not alone. the corridor is packed with people, mostly noblewomen, some nervous sweethearts, all fluttering around their chosen champions, many bearing the same tradition in their palms.

you catch sight of more than a few stretching their handkerchiefs out to mydei, vying for even a small glance. a small crowd trails him like petals in a storm, calling his name with saccharine lilts, each desperate to be noticed.

with the way he’s being swarmed, you resign yourself with a small sigh, clutching your own handkerchief, fingers curling gently around the cloth you spent the last few evenings stitching.

nevermind. maybe you’ll give it to phainon instead. he always appreciates the gesture, and at the very least, you’d get a smile out of him.

so your eyes scan the crowd instead, searching for—

only to freeze when you look up and see someone else already standing in front of you.

you blink, momentarily startled.

warmth spills into your chest, it’s strange. he never accepts handkerchiefs from anyone. not a single soul has ever earned that privilege. but today, in front of all these people, he’s taken yours without a second thought.

it’s a light gesture, but it says enough coming from the kremnoan prince.

and if he’s going to make such a bold move, you might as well tease him a little.

you tilt your head, a mischievous smile playing at your lips. “that’s sir phainon’s, you know.”

he stills for a moment, a flash of annoyance crossing his face before he furrows his brows in an almost adorable pout.

“then he’ll just have to go without,” he mutters.

you’ve never seen him look quite like this before —caught off guard and... flustered?

“... and i wanted one today.”

“well, since you’ve gone through all that trouble,” you say with a grin, “i suppose i’ll let you keep it.”

as you study him, a thought crosses your mind. you raise an eyebrow, “are you nervous about the tournament?”

his eyes flick to yours, “there is no word for ‘fear’ in the kremnoan language,” he replies, his voice low and confident.

it’s the kind of thing only mydeimos would say. and yet, something about the resolve in his eyes makes your heart skip a beat.

you manage a soft smile. “then bring back the victor’s crown for me, will you?”

honestly it's more of a vow than a request, you’d be content just seeing him return in one piece. but he takes it seriously anyway.

“if it’s for you,”

his expression softens for just a moment, and without missing a beat, he nods, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“i’d do anything.”

ACT VI: HOW TO BE VICTORIOUS

from your seat among the nobles, your gaze searches for him. the threads of your dress pinched between trembling fingers, creased from how often you’ve clutched it.

ever since you’ve come to kremnos, you’ve grown used to the sound of battle, but today every strike echoes a little louder in your ears.

your heart clenches every time mydei stumbles or blood splashes across the sand. even knowing how strong he is, how capable, there’s a twist of worry that doesn’t loosen its grip.

the kind you only feel when the person you care about is the one walking straight into danger.

you’d heard stories of what the tournament demands, but seeing it for yourself… it’s surreal.

the crowd cheers for violence.

warriors enter the arena one by one, facing off not only against each other, but against beasts dragged from the darkest corners of the empire —corrupted titankins, two-headed hounds, massive golems wreathed in flame; just to name a few.

and each time, the gates crash open with a deafening clang, releasing something more vicious than the last. still, he doesn’t falter. when a snarling beast lunges for his throat, he drives his sword deep into its ribs without a second thought.

the nobles cheer and holler around you, drunk on spectacle. but your eyes don’t leave him, not for a moment.

because while the crowd may be here for blood, all you want…

is to be the first thing mydei sees when it’s over.

the last of the other competitors lie in heaps of blood and sand, either devoured by the beasts or incapacitated by the prince. there’s no one left to challenge him except the creature before him.

the towering beast staggers toward him; your pulse spikes, hands gripping the edge of your seat as you hold your breath. every step it takes sends tremors through the arena floor, snarls echoing off stone as it bears down on him with a murderous roar.

the beast lunges, jaws snapping wide, but mydei meets it with unyielding resolve. his sword arcs through the air, a flash of silver against the blood-soaked dusk. the beast jerks, a guttural screech tearing from its throat as it rears back.

for a heartbeat, you can't tell who’s fallen.

then, through the settling haze, you see mydei standing, blood splattered across his armor, chest heaving with exertion. the beast lets out a final screech —and then crumples to the sand in a thunderous collapse.

for a heartbeat, there’s silence. and then the crowd erupts into a deafening cheer.

“mydei!” you cry out, your heart racing as you push through the sea of people to get closer.

he lifts his gaze, and it’s you he finds.

the victor’s crown, gleaming beneath the sun, is placed into his hands. and he raises it high above his head for all to see.

a roar erupts from the coliseum, the crowd surging to its feet as the name mydeimos echoes from every corner, chanted with unrelenting fervor.

and without hesitation, he strides toward you, his face softening as he approaches.

with a tenderness that belies his warrior's demeanor, he leans down and presses a soft kiss to the top of your head.

"yours," mydei whispers. he lifts the victor’s crown in both hands, and with all the devotion of a man offering his heart, places it gently atop your head.

you reach up to his bloodied face, your hand trembling slightly as the warmth of his skin seeps into your fingers. your palm comes to rest against his cheek.

“you came back to me,” you murmur.

he leans into your touch, eyes fluttering shut for the briefest moment —like he’s been waiting for this, aching for it.

“i always will.”

you rise onto your toes, closing the distance between you.

at the end of the day, all mydei seeks is not victory or glory, but the soft sound of his name on the lips of his beloved, wrapped in an embrace that makes him forget the harshness of the battlefield.

EPILOGUE: HOW TO WIN HIM OVER

the question that once haunted your thoughts —how could i ever win his heart? —feels like a distant memory now, an answer long since found.

mydei looks at you with a softness in his eyes that you’ve come to know as a rare gift. his hand, calloused from battles fought and won, reaches for yours, his fingers brushing against yours before entwining it.

“by the way, i’m actually… immortal. my injuries heal up after a while.”

you blink at him in confusion, and he chuckles softly, the sound warm and fond.

“wait, then that time when you—” you pause, recalling the night you carefully wrapped up his injury.

he grins, a small, playful glint in his eyes. ”i just like the way you worry over me.”

the admission leaves a flutter in your chest as his thumb gently strokes the back of your hand.

you huff, pretending to be upset, though your heart races at the softness in his words. “you mean to say all that time i was worried sick over you for nothing?”

he tilts his head, feigning innocence. “it wasn’t for no reason,” he says, clearly trying not to smile. “i liked it. still do.”

you narrow your eyes, lips tugging into a pout. “well, you could’ve told me sooner! now i feel ridiculous.”

with a soft chuckle, mydei’s fingers brush through your hair in a gentle, almost apologetic gesture. he ruffles it lightly, his touch surprisingly tender. “you’re adorable when you’re upset,” he murmurs, his voice holding a sweetness that makes your heart skip a beat.

you can’t help but soften, the playful anger fading as his hand lingers for a moment longer. he pulls you a little closer, his forehead gently resting against yours. “don’t be mad. i’ll let you fuss over me for as long as you want, as long as you’re by my side.”

“you better mean that! i’m holding you to it.”

he hums, the sound low and content as he presses a kiss to your temple. “i do,” he whispers. “if there’s one thing i’ll always be sure of, it’s you.”

you think back to every hesitation, every guarded glance, the walls he built high around his heart. and now, that same heart rests in your hands.

“looks like i managed to win you over after all,” you tease softly.

the way he looks at you says more than words ever could —as if you’re the only war he’s ever been glad to lose.

his fingers stay curled around yours; his heart laid bare with the quiet, breathtaking certainty that he is yours, as much as you are his.

"i love you, [name]."

and if this is victory, it’s the sweetest one yet.

thank you for reading!! reblogs are appreciated <3

MASTERLIST

#re: fics 🌕#finally got to reading this #my class starts in a couple hours and idk if ill be ablt to focus properly SOLEY BECAUSE OF THIS FIC #Ren screw you /affectionate #also. you encapsulated the song 'can we make this work' so beautifully into this fic #←listened to that the entire time #UGH REN HOW DARE YOU #HAS LYSOL SEEN THIS YET. LYSOL HI YOU'D LOVE THIS #ren im giving you forehead kisses because this was insane #it was gave very much manwha vibes and if i could id draw the entirety of this fic #well done rennie *claps hands like seal*#the wait was very much worth it #we dreamed of fics like this

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